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203 



POEMS BY MATTIE GRIFFITH. 



POEMS, 



BY 



7H/u> 



MATTIE(GRIFFITH. fruHr* 1 * 



, Jta first dftltetrit 



NEW-YORK. 

D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY, 

AND 16 LITTLE BRITAIN, LONDON. 

M.DCCC.LIII. 



75 \» ^ 5 



«$s 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S52, by 

D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 

In tho Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District 

of New-York. 






»•'**«* 



TO THE 

GREAT PEOPLE OF KENTUCKY, 

Gilts Xittle ajoltinie 

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED 

BY THE 

HUMBLEST AND MOST DEVOTED 
OP KENTUCKY'S DAUGHTERS. 

THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 



The Dying Girl, 9 

The Lovers' Last Meeting, 16 

Look and List, Love, 25 

The Close of the Year, 30 

Moonlight, 36 

To Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart., 40 

On the Death of Miss Nannie C*-**** 46 

The Hermit, 50 

To my Sister, ^ 

To Miss Julia Dean, 58 

Starlight Musings, 63 

The Deserted, 69 

Thou Lovest Me No More, 75 

My Birth-Day, 80 

The Student 84 



viii CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

In Memoey of Mrs. Adeline K. O'Brien, 88 

Close of the Year, 92 

To My Georgie, 97 

In Memory of my Father. 101 

The Lone One at the Old Trysting-Place, 105 

Lines to Miss , 109 

To , Ill 

My Mother, 116 

To J. R. Barrick, 120 

The Orphan, 123 

Impromptu, 126 

Life, 130 

The Young Mother, 135 

To 0. "W. A., of Taylorsvillle, 138 

To a Friend, 141 

Broken Barbiton — Withered Laurel-Wreath and Broken 

Heart, 143 

The Orphan's Dream of Fame, 148 

A Trifle to a Friend, 153 

The Urn of the Heart, 156 

Recollections, 159 

To , during his Illness, 1 64 



%\t gptg Gift. 

THROW open yonder window, sister dear, 
For all seems gloomy and oppressive here ; 
I feel, alas ! that I am dying now, 
But the warm breeze may breathe upon my brow 
And o'er my heart a soft and holy spell, 
Bidding my faint and failing spirit swell 
With the dear thoughts and visions that had power 
To brighten life in childhood's fairy hour. 

I go, sweet sister, to yon far blue land 
Where dwell the blest, a bright, angelic band, 
Where radiant spirits chant their burning lay, 
Their song of immortality, and stray 
1* 



10 THE DYING GIRL. 

Beside the streams soft-gleaming 'mid the flowers 
And rainbow-groves of Eden's blessed bow T ers, 
And there I shall behold our mother's face, 
And she will clasp me in her dear embrace ! 

And yet, oh yet, it grieves my heart, dear love, 

To leave thee here, a young and tender dove, 

Lone-wandering o'er life's waters cold and dark, 

Ne'er to find rest save in God's holy ark ; 

But there, when Time's wild storms at last shall cease 

Thy weary pinions will repose in peace, 

And their bright plumage never more be cast 

All torn and scattered on the bitter blast. 



I'm musing now, my sister, on the time, 
"When we in our own dear, our native clime, 
With our sweet mother in our childhood dwelt, 
Gay as the singing birds, and never felt 
The care, the grief, the agony, the strife. 
That lurk like fiends along the paths of life. 



THE DYING GIRL. H 

There round our home the rose with crimson dye 
Bared its young heart of beauty to the eye, 
There sprang the violets, and the lilies there, 
Pale nuns of nature, bowed their heads in prayer ; 
The jasmine, sweetest of the race of flowers, 
Breathed its full soul of fragrance in the bowers ; 
Above the window of our little room 
The honeysuckle hung in clustering bloom, 
Before our door the bright blue streamlet played, 
Leaping and dimpling in the light and shade, 
And the tall trees of deep and solemn green 
Upon the far horizon seemed to lean 
Like holy watchers of the golden sky, 
The sentinels of immortality. 

And there, sister, lay the burial ground, 

A lonely spot where broke no rude, harsh sound, 

And where the mournful grave-stones rose to keep 

Their silent vigils o'er each place of sleep, 

And where at times we wander'd with hushed breath 

To view the sad memorials of death. 



12 THE DYING GIRL. 

There, sister, sleep our old ancestral line, 
And I would lay this weary head of mine 
Beside their forms, and I would have a rose 
To shed its sweetness o'er my still repose, 
A rose, dear sister, planted by thy care, 
Wooing the bright young birds to linger there, 
And sweetly sing my mouldering form above, 
To God their little songs of joy and love. 
Methinks 'twould soothe my spirit thus to lie 
In that dear spot beneath our natal sky, 
And hear (if spirits may) on Spring's soft eves 
Our natal breezes stir the dewy leaves, 
Waking the melodies that were so dear 
And yet so mournful to my childhood's ear. 

Oh ! chide me not, sweet sister, if I weep 
That these fond dreams are idle. I must sleep 
Here in this cold, strange land, far, far away 
From all I knew and loved in life's young day, 
Far from the ashes of the brave and fair 
Who bore the name that we are proud to bear, 



THE DYING GIRL. 13 

And who have gone before me to their home 
In the high halls of yon star-lighted dome. 
Forms all unknown will slumber near my side, 
The poor remains, perchance, of wealth and pride, 
And shafted monuments around will rise, 
Mocking the green turf where the lone one lies. 
But, sister, thou at gentle close of day, 
Wilt often come upon my grave to lay 
The fading flowers, sad emblems of the fate 
Of the young stranger, lone and desolate. 
And, sister dear, when thou shalt come to shed 
Love's sacred tears a.bove my humble bed, 
I pray thee speak to me, and thou shalt hear 
My voice soft- stealing on thy spirit-ear, 
And thou shalt feel, as thrillingly as now, 
My gentle kisses on thy sad, sweet brow. 

Thus spake a young girl, pale, but beautiful 
As a rapt poet's holiest dreams. The dull 
Cold Aim of death was soon to dim her eye, 
Still bright as yon clear jewel of the sky ; 



14 THE DYING GIRL. 

Bright with the visions of her vanished years, 

Bright with the rainbow pictured on her tears 

By love's and memory's pure and tender beams, 

Soft-shining through her spirit's shadowy dreams. 

Down her fair form her clustering locks hung low, 

Like willow-boughs above a drift of snow ; 

On her pale cheek the fever-flush was bright, 

Like a red flame upon a cloud of white ; 

Her thin, pale hand, through which the blue veins shone, 

In all their windings beautiful, was thrown 

Upon the crimson drapery of her bed. 

Like a frail lily among roses red. 

And there she lay, and tossed in wild unrest, 

And clasped her weeping sister to her breast, 

And uttered broken words of prayer and love 

To God upon his mercy-seat above. 

At length the glories of the sunset sky 

Stole through the window to her wandering eye, 

And, as her gaze was fixed intensely there, 

She seemed to see a spirit in the air. 

Half-rising on her couch, with sudden start, 

She strove to clasp the vision to her heart, 



THE DYING GIRL. 15 

And with a feeble cry of ecstasy, 

" Oh ! mother, stay, I come, I come to thee ! 

Her young soul passed, her dream of earth was o'er, 

Her pulse was still, her heart beat nevermore. 

Uniontown, Pa., July 11. 



I|t facts' fast "§ feting. 

TT was a calm, still, Sabbath eve — no breeze 

Went o'er the sleeping flowers, no murmured sound, 
From Nature's harp of many voices, rose 
Upon the deep and strange serenity 
Of the lone death of day. The Lovers met 
In the sweet silence of that holy eve, 
Once more upon the old, familiar spot 
Of love's dear tryst. Dark months had passed away 
Since they had gazed together on that scene 
Of deepest, keenest raptures. That young girl, 
Even in her girlhood's ripening flush, seemed old, 
And worn in soul. Her pale and withering cheek 
Told to the heart the tale of many a wild, 
Fierce struggle of a spirit unsubdued. 



THE LOVER'S LAST MEETING. 17 

Her dark eyes gleamed with the intensity 

Of strange, unspoken griefs, and in their calm, 

Mysterious fixedness there seemed a high, 

And deep, and stern resolve, as though her heart 

Of iron pride might never quail beneath 

Life's fiercest storms. Yet when she turned those orbs 

To his, a gentle, melancholy smile 

Played round their lids, and quivering tear-drops hung, 

Like the bright gems of dewy morning, o'er 

Their dark and stormy depths. 

And he on whom 
Her glance of love fell, piercing his deep soul, 
His soul of strong and manly daring, stood 
All tearfully beside her, and his arm 
Around her slender form was wildly flung, 
Love's living, burning cestus ; and her head, 
With all its clustering wealth of raven curls, 
Drooped to his heaving bosom, as a dove, 
Weary and broken wing'd, sinks to its own 
Dear parent nest. Her little trembling hand 



18 THE LOVERS' LAST MEETING. 

Was clasped within his own, her upturned eye 
Met his, and drank again the heavenly bliss 
Of dear and sweet reunion. On each pale 
And stricken brow the darkness of a deep 
And solemn shadow rested, and each cheek 
And lip seemed chilled with sorrow's withering frost. 
Though summer., autumn, winter, spring had passed 
Again and yet again since they had met, 
They gazed into each other's hearts and read 
No change in those deep founts of burning love. 
There no dark raven-wing had brooded — each 
Had e'er embalmed with love's pure incense-breath 
The image of the other. They had vowed 
And kept their holy truth, and now their love 
Was all undimed, though grief had almost crushed 
The life from out their souls. 

The sweet rich glow 
Of the soft twilight lent its passion-hue 
Of crimson to her temples, or perchance 
It may have been the deep reflection caught 
From the wild burning thoughts that raged within 



THE LOVERS' L.AST MEETING. 19 

Her shut and silent heart. She did not look 
Upon the many flowers, she did not hear 
The music of the stream — the fairy tints 
Of sunset, the green surging of the woods, 
The mildly-wooing zephyrs, and the tones, 
The thousand deep tones of the holy hour, 
All were unheeded then. Her eyes, her ears, 
Her thoughts, her soul, her life, were but for him. 
She leaned upon him with that touching trust 
And holy confidence a saint would feel 
In leaning upon heaven. And she to him 
Was all that mortal creature e'er could be 
To a proud child of earth. With lip to lip, 
And heart quick-throbbing to its throbbing mate, 
They stood in love's bewildering embrace, 
Silently clasping in their straining arms 
All that they knew of heaven on earth. And then 
They heeded not the passing of the hours, 
They saw not sunset's glorious roses fade 
Within the west's sky-garden, they but felt 
They loved and were supremely blest. 



20 THE LOVERS' .LAST MEETING 

At length 
The thought that they must part stole on their souls 
Like the deep shadow of a thunder-cloud. 
She strove to drive that fearful thought away, 
But there it stood, a fiend between her soul 
And her bright heaven of joy. Beneath the weight 
Of her great grief, her head sank down, as bends 
The lily's pale and broken cup beneath 
The torrents of the cloud. And then with low, 
Sweet tones of tenderness, though his own heart 
Was bursting with its stifled rush of tears, 
He soothed her fearful agony. He spoke 
Of joys and raptures past but treasured still 
In memory's sacred chambers, of the hope 
That even then seemed shining with a dim 
And pale but beauteous gleam upon the waves 
Of the far distant future. Thus he won 
Her spirit from its dark and crushing grief, 
And bade her turn her thoughts from earth, and look 
Above life's clouds for perfect happiness 
Within the skies. He told her how they two 



THE LOVERS' LAST MEETING. 21 

Would wander there, twin-spirits, hand in hand, 

Beside the lovely Eden streams that glass 

The blessed rainbow skies, how they would cull 

The sweetest blossoms glowing with the dews 

Of heaven, and twine them into beauteous wreaths, 

Dear love- wreaths, for each other's foreheads ; how 

They oft would fly upon their spirit-wings 

From star to star, to read the beautiful 

And blazing mysteries of the sky, and how 

They would at times come clown from heaven to earth 

To sit beside each other on the dear 

And blessed spot where then they sat, and muse 

On all the raptures shared together there, 

And breathe again the vows so often breathed 

In life from their deep hearts of love, and make 

That scene the tryst of their pure souls in heaven 

As 'twas their tryst upon the earth. 



But though 
By soft and low and gentle words like these, 



22 THE LOVERS' LAST MEETING. 

Breathed in the rich tones that first won her love, 

He calmed the fiery lava-flood that raged 

Within her tortured heart, he could not soothe 

The agony that burned within his own. 

His soul was strong and haughty. He could bear 

The cold world's bitter hate, he faltered not 

At " foaming calumny," he did not heed 

The piercing blasts of poverty, but when, 

At that sad hour, he fixed his eyes on her, 

His bright though fading flower, and thought how she 

Would pine in his drear absence from her side, 

And saw that her young morning-tide of life 

Was ebbing fast away, Oh then his heart, 

His high, proud heart, sank in his manly breast, 

His haughty spirit trembled, and a strong 

Convulsion shook his features, and the drops 

Of agony welled upward from a fount 

Long sealed within his bosom, and he wept 

As if his heart were broken. And her tears 

Gushed forth to blend with his, and thus they wept 

Together long and wildly. 



THE LOVERS' LAST. MEETING. 23 

On their ears 
Now stole the deep tones of the vesper bell. 
As mournfully as if it had been tolled 
For some dear friend. It woke them from their trance 
Of paralyzing grief, it pealed and rang 
Far through the echoing chambers of their souls, 
And told them with its mocking cadences 
That 'twas the hour, the moment, they must part. 
All silently, but for one death-like groan, 
He strained her to his bosom, on her brow 
He breathed his passion-kisses till it seemed 
As if each trembling blood-drop in her frame 
Rushed up to share the maddening embrace — 
Then with one low, deep, passionate farewell, 
That sounded as if uttered by his soul 
Through still, unbreathing lips, they parted. 

She, 
Pale, faint, and weak, with faltering footsteps sought 
Her chamber's silent solitude, to pour 
Her sad soul forth in earnest prayer to God 



24 THE LOVERS' LAST MEETING. 

For strength to quell the fierce, rebellious thoughts 
That seemed for ever sweeping like a tide 
Of burning waters o'er her heart. He sought 
The forest's deeper silence, there to hold 
Through the still night communion with his soul, 
And her, and heaven ; and, when the morning came, 
He went with sickening heart and aching brow 
Once more into the toiling world of men, 
To struggle with his bitter destiny. 

'Twas their last parting — a brief year passed by, 
And lo ! a pitying angel came from Heaven 
And joined their fates forever. 'Twas the kind 
Death-angel — they are all each other's now. 



t flolt nft fist, fife. 

1ST, love, oh listen as the breeze 
-" Goes softly floating by, 
And to thine ear 'twill sweetly breathe 

My young heart's tenderest sigh ; 
And if that breeze hath passed o'er crushed 

And withered flowers, 'twill tell, 
In saddened cadence, of the griefs 
That in my bosom dwell. 

List, love. 

List to the music of the stream, 

The far-off waterfall, 
And in its low tones thou wilt hear 

My spirit's earnest call 
2 



20 LOOK AND LIST, LOVE. 

To thine, to meet me at the soft 
And blessed twilight hour, 

Where we so oft have loved to meet 
In our own wildwood bower. 
List, love. 



Look on the glorious hues that wave 

Along the sunset sky, 
Like heavenly banners o'er the hosts 

Of angels trooping by, 
And thou wilt see my spirit there 

Soft beckoning unto thine, 
To join me in that fairy realm, 

And be for ever mine. 

Look, love. 

Look on the cloudless heavens that roll 

So beautiful and fair, 
And think of all our earnest vows 

That have their record there. 



LOOK AND LIST, LOVE. 27 

And see ! the priest of Nature now 

Seems bending from above, 
With his own gentle hand to set 

The signet of our love. 

Look, love. 

List to the murmurs sweet and wild 

That from the ocean swell, 
Like the mysterious melodies 

Heard in its music-shell ; 
And they will speak of memories 

That in our bosoms sleep, 
Unseen and beautiful, like pearls 

Within the sea's blue deep. 
List, love. 

List to the spirit-minstrelsy 

That steals from yon bright stars, 
As in their watch of love they float 

High on their golden cars ; 



28 LOOK AND LIST, LOVE. 

And they will tell thee that the love 

To our young spirits given, 
Like theirs, shines sweetly on the earth 

But has its home in heaven. 
List, love. 

Look, at our own dear hour of tryst, 

Upon the passion-flower, 
I culled and laid upon thy heart 

In our own favorite bower ; 
And if thou lov'st me dearly still, 

Thy gentle eye will trace 
The blessed story of our loves 

Upon its pale, sweet face. 

Look, love. 

Oh ! look and listen at the calm 

And holy midnight hour, 
When love's deep charm o'er human souls 

Hath strong and mystic power ; 



LOOK AND LIST, LOVE. 29 

And thou wilt see my spirit stand 

Beside thee where thou art, 
And hear it breathe love's burning words 

Into thine ear and heart. 

Look and list, love. 



Loins ville, Kr., 1852. 



%\t &lm 0f tlje |tar* 

A NOTHER and another ! 'Tis the still 
-*-*- And solemn hour of midnight. Not a sound 
Of mortal life disturbs the awful calm 
That rests upon the dim and sleeping earth. 
'Twould seem as if a wizard spell were laid 
Upon the winds, the woods, the waves, the streams ; 
For all the thousand voices that are wont, 
In this deep hour of darkness and of dreams, 
To weave their low, mysterious cadences 
In one wild chant of spirit-melody, 
Are silent now, and there is naught to tell 
The ear that Nature lives. The holy stars, 
The watchers of the night, are burning faint, 
Like funeral lamps ; the dark cloud-shadows rest 



THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 31 

Upon the still earth like a pall ; the hills 

And mountains stand like mourners ; the tall trees, 

Leafless and solemn, bend their tops like plumes 

Above the bier ; and lo ! a countless throng 

Of wan and ghastly phantoms seem to come 

From the dim realm of shadows, to convey 

The Old Year to his burial. 



He is gone ! 
He breathed no sigh or groan in his death-hour, 
But with the awful stillness of a dream, 
Passed to the mystic realm where dwell the shades 
Of years that passed before him. One more wave. 
Bright with our smiles and bitter with our tears, 
A wave that has reflected star and cloud, 
The blue sky and the tempest's wrath, is lost 
In the great ocean of Eternity, 
Whose dark and dread and shoreless waters hide 
The wrecks of empires and the wrecks of worlds 
From every eye but God's. 



32 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 

All ! gazing back 
Upon the parted year, we darkly mourn 
Its rich and wasted treasures. We recall, 
With keen remorse, life's follies and its crimes, 
And tears are swelling in our stricken hearts — 
Vain tears, alas how vain ! And see ! beside 
The shadowy spectre of the silent Past, 
A sad and sorrowing Angel seems to stand, 
Who, in a tone as mournful as the cry 
Of a lost soul, rebukes us for our deeds 
Of error, and implores us to be true 
To earth and Heaven in all the coming time 
That may be ours beneath the skies. 

Here, here, 
At one year's burial and another's birth, 
Here, on this narrow isthmus in the sea, 
Time's ever surging sea, oh let us pause 
And deeply muse upon the two vast worlds, 
Spread out on either hand before our eyes, 
The Past and Future. From this lonely height, 



THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 33 

Straining our gaze far backward o'er the plain 
That we have swiftly traversed, we behold, 
All thickly scattered o'er the dreary space, 
Unnumbered mounds, which mark the graves of joys, 
And loves, and hopes that thronged around our path, 
To charm our eyes and win our happy hearts 
By their sweet smiles and wild enchanting tones, 
And then sank down to mingle with the dust, 
Like exhalations of the morning. We 
Look earnestly upon the fairy vales, 
Where, in life's spring-time hours, we lingered long 
To gather garlands of sweet flowers to deck 
The heart's own altars — but no flowers are there. 
The Autumn winds and Winter tempests swept 
Above their blooming loveliness, and they 
Perished in their bright beauty, and their souls 
Of perfume passed to Heaven. With wearied eyes, 
And sad and aching hearts, we turn away 
From the lone desolations of the past, 
To gaze upon Futurity, and there, 
Through the long vista of the years, we see, 

2* 



34 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 

With fancy's eye, rich vales, as beautiful 

As those through which in childhood's hours we roved ; 

And there, joys, hopes, and loves, as fresh and bright 

As those which sprang and perished by our side, 

Seem flitting in the distance, wild and free, 

And sweetly beckoning us to where they dwell, 

Like a young troop of Fairies. 

A New Year, 
A new, unsullied year, is ours. Its page 
Is sealed ; we know not what is folded there ; 
We know not whether joy or agon}^. 
We know not whether life or death, is writ 
Within the fearful scroll, but 'tis enough 
To know the gift is God's. Within our breasts, 
Amid love's blasted buds, joy's faded wreaths, 
And hope's pale, withered garlands, one bright flower 
Is still uncrushed, undimmed, the holy flower 
Of Faith divine. We feel, we know that He, 
Who hath preserved us 'mid the thousand ills, 
The countless dangers lurking in our paths, 



THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 35 

Still holds us in the hollow of His hand, 
And bids us trust in Him. 

Farewell, Old Year ! 
May we, when called, like thee, from earth away, 
Obey, like thee, the summons, calm, serene, 
Without one sigh, or groan, or wild heart-throb 
To mark the moment of dissolving life. 
And oh may we, within the Eden land, 
Where angel wings are glancing through the air, 
And seraph songs are poured from rainbow clouds, 
Once more embrace the loved and lost whom thou 
Hast taken from us in thy silent flight. 



A S here I sit within my lonely room, 
-*-*- A spirit seems abroad upon the air, 
That o'er me flings an influence mild and sweet. 
Yet mournful and mysterious. It is soft, 
And calm, and hallowed, yet so very sad, 
That tears are on my eyelids. It unlocks 
Memory's pale urn, and to my soul reveals 
Treasures long hidden in its depths. It calls 
Forth, from their cold and silent graves, the forms 
Of dearly loved one's faded long ago. 
They seem to live again ; they move once more 
Beside me as they moved in life ; they breathe 
Sweet accents in my ear ; they rise from earth 
On angel plumes, and gently beckon me 



MOONLIGHT. 37 



Through the soft, silvery mists that float around. 
To follow them upon their long 
And shining trail of glory. 



'Tis a strange 



But pure and blessed spirit, for each thought 
It makes is pure and blessed. Every dream 
It brings is soft, and deep, and beautiful 
As 'twere an Eden vision. And, oh, see ! 
A pale, unearthly light is in the air, 
Chastening the shadows that dance fitfully 
Along the silent walls ; and now I feel 
My cheek and brow are hallowed by its pure 
And radiant baptism. 

Ah, it is the sweet 
Soft spirit of the Moonlight. 'Tis the gleam 
Of yonder '-Queen of mysteries," wandering forth 
Like a pale nun in heaven. Lone-musing here 
Amid the shadows of my curtained room, 
I saw it not, but yet I felt its spell 



38 MOONLIGHT. 

Steal through the air and sink into my soul, 

As with an angel power. And lo ! as now 

I gaze out from my window on the earth, 

How softly and how beautifully beams 

The moonlight over nature. The young leaves 

Turn up their edges to its silver glow, 

And quiver with their rapture. The blue isles, 

The streams, the hills, the forests and the clouds 

Seem things of fairy-land, for beauty floats 

Like a wild dream around them. Gentle moon ! 

Pale, lonely mistress of the solemn night ! 

The tides of my young bosom heave and swell, 

Even as the tides of ocean, to thy strong 

Mysterious power! Oh! fill my breast with light 

From thy high sun, and touch each shadowy thought, 

Each dark and gloomy fancy of my heart, 

With thy unclouded beams. 

There is a pure 
Sweet moonlight of the soul, that from the sky 
Shines on our earthly spirits, silvering o'er 



MOONLIGHT. 39 



Each depth of doubt, and sin. and agony 
With the celestial beauty of its beams, 
And bidding every shadow melt away ; 
Religion is that brightener of the soul, 
And life's dark waters glowing in its light, 
Mirror the wondrous glories of the heavens. 

Louisville, March 15. 



f » Sir (fttostrt gaiter f jttoit, |art. 

MY cousin, I have never seen thee — yet 
From childhood's early years my dearest thoughts 
Have been so full of thee, I almost seem 
To know thee well. From thy high soul, my soul 
Has caught its inspiration. I have felt 
My spirit rise exulting with thine own, 
To share the blessed sunbeam and the breeze. 
But when, in thy proud majesty of strength, 
Thou hast sprung upward to the skies to ride 
At will on passion's maddening storm of fire, 
My young heart, faint and weak with its excess 
Of voiceless adoration, has sunk down 



TO SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 41 

Before thee, its deep pride, its strength, its life, 
All, all forgotten in its silent awe 
Toward a bright being of the earth so high, 
And glorious, and grand. 

Oh I have thought 
As o'er thy bright and burning page my heart 
Wrapt in wild flame, has poured its mightiest love, 
How like a demi-god thou art, thou proud 
And sceptred monarch of the realm of mind ! 
The human soul, with all its mystic chords 
Of joy and woe, and hope and holy love, 
Is thine own instrument, from which thy hand 
Awakens tones whose echoes will be heard 
Through all the coming years, far sounding o'er 
The ocean of the future ages. 

Thou 
Art a magician of strange power ; thou canst 
Draw healing sweets from poisons ; thou canst make 
The darkest, deadliest passions wear the hues 



42 TO SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 

Of beauty and religion ; all tilings, glassed 

Within thy fancy's mirror-wave, assume 

The holy tints of heaven. With wizard spell 

Thou stirrest the deep fountains of my life 

Until I worship thee, and feel myself 

Exalted by such worship. Thou dost stand 

Upon thy own high pyramid of mind, 

As on some lofty mountain-height, and wave 

Thy mighty wand, and myriads of bright 

And fearful shapes, all things of heaven and earth, 

Come thronging on the wild, careering winds, 

The vassals of thy bidding. 

Cousin, I 
Have deemed that, like the brave old Titan, thou 
Hast stolen fire from heaven wherewith to warm 
The frozen world of thought, but thou wilt not, 
Like him. be destined to the chain, the rock, 
And the fierce vulture at the heart, for Jove, 
The Tyrant, rules no more in heaven, and God 
Is justice, love, and mercy. 



TO SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 43 

Cousin, thou 
Hast said thou lovest me, and in that love 
My bosom proud feels all the rapturous joy 
E'er dreamed of on the earth. We have not met, 
And I could pray that we might never meet 3 
For stern reality hath cruel power 
To cheat bright fancy of her thousand spells. 
To thee I would be ever as a thing 
Of youth and love, which, though from thee afar, 
Is still a part of thee. Oh let the light, 
The love-light of these tearful eyes of mine, 
Shine on thee in the beam of some pure star ; 
Let my low voice steal o'er thee in the sound 
Of melancholy winds through midnight rains ; 
Let the soft, dewy pinions of the breeze. 
As, laden with the perfume of the flowers, 
It comes to fan thy forehead, bear to thee 
A kiss from my young spirit ; let me be 
As a soft, blessed tone of melody 
To stir with gentleness the passion-depths 
Of thy great soul ; and when on some lone eve 



44 TO SIR EDWARD BITLWER LYTTON. 

I send, as now, my spirit to commune 
With thine, oh give it one sweet, dewy flower 
From out the rich rose-garden of thy soul, 
One little diamond from thy priceless mine 
Of bright and glorious thought, one gentle sigh 
From thy deep spirit, mournful with the wild 
Excess of dreaming passion far too rich 
To find its proper guerdon in a cold, 
Unfeeling world like this. 

Oh cousin mine, 
Thou art my deep idolatry. I've (beamed 
Oft of the glory of our ancient race 
Which lives again in thee. I've deemed the pride, 
Which in the great Llewellyn dimly shone, 
In thee all perfected. I've sat and mused 
On thee with blissful tears, until my soul 
Has from thy fancy's glorious well-spring drawn 
Visions of love and immortality. 
In musings I have ofttimes stood with thee 
In ancient Knebworth, and with thee have strayed 



TO SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 45 

Through its time-honored shades, while thy rich tones 
Have thrilled my spirit's lyre, and wakened thoughts 
To sleep no more for ever. 

Cousin dear, 
This humble wreath that here I send to thee 
Is woven of my spirit's bleeding flowers. 
Oh do not scorn the chaplet, for 'tis fresh, 
And pure, and softly glowing with the heart's 
First morning dews. My cousin, fare thee well. 



&\\ ffct 9*Q of pss pumic «*****. 

pvEAR. lovely girl, my thoughts are thine in this sweet 

twilight hour, 
The young, the bright, the beautiful, gone like a stricken 

flower ; 
A thousand holy memories are rushing o'er my heart, 
And there thine image seems once more to life and love to 

start ; 
I see thy dark and clustering curls around thy gentle face, 
Thy soft black eye, thy rosy lip, and all thy witching grace, 
And hear the cadence of thy voice come sweetly stealing by, 
Like music from some fairy fount beneath the moonlight 

sky. 



ON THE DEATH OF MISS c*****. 47 

Oh couldst thou, sweet and gentle girl, on earth no longer 

dwell? 
Had thy dear mother's love no power to hold thee with its 

spell? 
Had thy sweet sister's pleading voice no tone to keep thee 

here ? 
Had life no charm to make thy home than paradise more 

dear? 
Ah no, the bright, the angel band bent gently from the sky, 
And wooed and won thee to their home, their own blest home 

on high. 
And there, beneath the holy shade of myriad starry wings, 
Thou wanderest 'mid the living flowers of heaven's own liv- 
ing springs, 
To hear the lofty music tones, the hymns of rolling spheres, 
Blend with thy own soul melodies through God's eternal 

years. 
But oh ! does deeper, tenderer love in those high realms 

have birth, 
Than that which lives and throbs and weeps in human hearts 

on earth ? 



48 ON THE DEATH OF MISS C*****. 

The thousand blossoms that have died beneath the Autumn 

blast, 
Will bloom in future Springs as bright as in the Springs long 

past ; 
The rose and violet will lift their cups of white and blue, 
As erst at morn and mournful eve to catch the falling dew ; 
The bright wing'd birds will pour their songs of love from 

every tree, 
The bright young streams with ringing shout leap onward to 

the sea ; 
But naught of these can ever pierce the cold and silent shade, 
Where, with thine arms upon thy breast, thy lovely form is 

laid. 
Yet come to us, dear Nannie, come, in this soft, stilly hour, 
And tell us of thy happy home in Heaven's immortal bower ; 
I know that thou art there, for all thy thoughts beneath the 

skies 
Were beauteous as an Angel's dream asleep in Paradise. 
And, oh I ask that when thy hymns of ecstasy ascend, 
Thoul't breathe one deep and holy prayer for thy poor, erring 

friend, 



ON THE DEATH OF MISS C****» 49 

Who still, with weary step must tread, in loneliness and 

gloom, 
Uncheered by flower or blessed star, her pathway to the 

tomb. 



IT was a cold and bitter winter night. 
The keen winds howled around like beasts of prey 
Seeking for victims. A white shroud of snow 
Covered the desolate and lonely moor 
On which a cottage stood. A single lamp 
Shone through the window, shedding faintly round 
A melancholy light. Within those walls 
Dwelt the lone Hermit of the moor, and now 
Upon the hard and stony floor he knelt 
In fervent prayer to Heaven. 

Beside him lay 
The rosary, the missal, and the scourge ; 
No fire was on his cold and cheerless hearth ; 



THE HERMIT. 51 

The bread and water on his table stood 

Untasted ; his thin, bloodless hands were clasped 

Upon his breast ; his blue, beseeching eye, 

Tearless as if its orb were seared with flame, 

Looked earnestly to Heaven ; the corded veins, 

That lay upon his brow and temples pale, 

Throbbed visibly as if a living fire 

Were burning in their currents ; his thin lip, 

Of ashen hue, was quivering ; purple drops 

Were on his naked shoulders, and his frame 

Still writhed and trembled from the blood-stained lash 

Of his fierce penance ; and, as there he turned 

Upward his suffering face to Heaven, his words 

Of penitence and supplication seemed 

To steal up from the caverns of his soul 

Like moans of keenest agony. 

That night 
The hermit passed in meditation, prayer, 
And fierce and bitter penance for the sins 
Of early youth. But her dear image still, 



52 THE HERMIT. 

The image of the sweet and gentle one 

That he had loved so passionately, rose 

'Mid all his maddening tortures and his prayers 

Between him and his God. 

The hours wore on. 
And when at length the first gray light of morn 
Dawned in the orient sky^, he laid his chill 
And trembling form upon his couch to check 
In sleep forbidden memories. In vain ! 
The dear, the loved one, pale and beautiful, 
Came softly stealing to his side in dreams, 
And bent above him, and her sweet blue eye 
Gazed mournfully in his, her tender lip 
Was pressed upon his forehead, and her voice. 
In tones of more than earthly melody, 
Was wildly breathing in his ear again 
Love's unforgotten words. 

The sun arose, 
Arid then the hermit's sleep was dreamless : bright 



THE HERMIT 53 

The beam lay on the rigid brow of death. 
But on his breast, beneath the sackcloth robe, 
Was found the picture of his early love 
Pressed o'er his throbless heart. They buried him 
Upon that dismal moor, and when the Spring 
Smiled sweetly on the earth, a stranger came, 
A gentle lady, deeply bowed with grief, 
And planted flowers upon his lonely grave ! 

Louisville, Ky. 



to mj Sister. 

Q| WEET sister, thou art very beautiful, 

^ Thy wild and dark eye-flashes, burns and glows 

With glorious spirit-lustre, and a spell 

Of deep and holy witchery looks out 

From its clear depths in many a glance of love, 

A fervid glance of love and loveliness. 

Thy pale, pale cheek, o'er which the faintest blush 

Of crimson fades out, like the passion-breath 

Of sunset o'er a snowy cloud ; thy pure 

High brow, so beautiful, and eloquent, 

With the proud majesty of lofty thought ; 

The waving wealth of midnight hair that floats 

Around thy forehead, like a stormy cloud 

Round a white monument ; thy parting lips 



TO MY SISTER. 55 

So red, so rich, so like the opening rose 

While yet the soft and early dew-drop blends 

With its wild perfume ; thy bewitching smile 

Of strange, bright beauty, like a glance just caught 

From the closed portals of the Eden clime ; 

Thy form, thy seraph form, that floats and glides 

Upon the earth in dreamlike loveliness, 

As 'twere the very spirit of a strain 

Of sweet and wild iEolian melody 

Made visible to mortal eyes ; thy soft 

And gentle voice, that through my spirit sends 

Its thrill, like low and mournful music heard 

O'er the still waters of the midnight deep — 

All these seem stealing on my eye and ear, 

And lingering with me in my lonely hours, 

To fashion blessed dreams of thee and heaven 

Within my glowing soul. 

Thou, sister dear, 
Art on the earth, not of it. Thy pure wing 
Is here chained back from thy own native heaven. 



56 TO MY SISTER. 

Thou art a gentle angel that my God 

Hath sent to soften, purify, and soothe 

My soul of fierce unrest. To me thy love 

Is the bright bow that spans life's darkest storm, 

An angel bending from the tempest-cloud. 

We two have wept o'er our dear mother's grave, 

Together we have bowed our heads and prayed 

For strength from Heaven to shield us from the stern 

Deep agonies of life. Our mother sleeps 

Afar, and we, the children of her love, 

Are left to buffet life's dark waves alone. 

No, not alone, for at the solemn hour 

Of holy midnight, on the moon's pale beams 

That mother seeks her loved ones on the earth, 

To whisper strength and comfort to their hearts. 

Oh then, sweet sister, let us gird ourselves 

For life's great battle, safe beneath her wing 

From every pain and danger. 

Sister mine ! 
I've marked with bitter, bitter agony 



TO MY SISTER. 57 

Thy fast decline — yet ah ! it cannot be 

That thou wilt leave me here alone, alone. 

Upon the cold dull earth. Alas ! I fear 

Our gentle mother would not come to me 

If thou wert gone. Oh leave me not — the dark 

Dread thought seems writhing in my burning brain, 

Like a wild scorpion in a sea of flame, 

And dreams of madness curdle my heart's blood, 

And wake the gloomy passions slumbering far 

Beneath the bright stream of my better thoughts. 

Thou wilt stay with me — yes, our mother's smile 

E'en now bids me be calm, and lo ! the waves 

Of maddening fear are slowly ebbing back, 

To Heaven's own music-tone of " Peace ! be still !" 



3* 



®0 Ito |ttli» JJot, 

ON SEEING HER AS JULIET. 

f\ H, thou art wondrous fair ! I did not dream 

^ Thus to behold the fancy of the great. 

Immortal poet's brain made palpable 

To mortal vision. Mighty Shakspeare's self, 

Who from his mind of myriad glories wrought 

This creature of strange beauty, and of deep 

Strong love, might well be proud to see thee take 

Her form, and to the bright ideal give 

Life, grace, and beauty brighter than her own. 

Oh who would not weep gushing tears with thee, 

Thou lovely being with a heart of flame, 



TO MISS JULIA DEAN. 59 

When in the maddening burst of thy young grief, 
Thy own clear Romeo from thee torn, thy arms 
Are thrown out wildly in a frantic prayer 
For his return ! And when upon the earth, 
In passion's stormiest mood, thy form is flung 
In utter, hopeless, crushing agony, 
The deep and mute upheavings of thy strong 
And frenzied soul wring drops of voiceless grief 
From hearts unused to tears. 

The mute appeal 
Of those blue orbs, the marble fixedness 
Of those sweet features in the trance of grief, 
When thou art left by all thy heart holds dear ; 
Thy face so radiant in its loveliness, 
Yet shadowed by the griefs that darkly lie 
Upon the broken altar of the heart : 
Thy music-cadences when in the strange, 
Deep poetry of passion, they are breathed 
From thy young lips — all touch the soul with power 
Mysterious and resistless. 



60 TO MISS JULIA DEAN. 

Lady bright, 
And beautiful, to thee belongs a high 
And glorious mission. The great heritage 
Of genius is thine own — the boon of Heaven. 
To the wild, airy things of poetry, 
Its spirit-visions, its ethereal dreams, 
Its mystic, fairy-like imaginings, 
Thou givest beauty and vitality, 
And bidd'st them move, and speak, and smile, and 

weep, 
Like beings of our earth, and they will live 
For ever in our glowing souls as thou 
Dost image them. 

lady dear, the pure 
And gentle beauty of thy sweet young face 
Has wakened thoughts and feelings in my soul, 
That will not, cannot perish but with life. 
Thy pure white brow, serene and beautiful, 
And calm as infant sleep ; thy floating wealth 
Of fleecy, golden hair ; thy liquid eyes, 



TO MISS JULIA DEAN. Q\ 

Through which thy thoughts glow ever, as the stars 

Shine through the soft, blue glories of the sky ; 

The eloquent rich blood that proudly mounts 

Up to thy throbbing temples, and imparts 

Its tinge to " the white wonder" of thy brow ; 

Thy ripe red lips, where honeyed sweetness seems 

To hang ; the chiselled outline of thy light 

And undulating form, and, most of all, 

The spirit of a genius that beams out 

From every lineament, like prisoned flame 

Shining through some bright alabaster vase — 

These, these are deeply imaged in my heart, 

A picture holy, beautiful and dear, 

That will not pass away with earth, but live 

Immortally within my soul in heaven, 

A portion of that heaven's own purity 

And angel beauty. 

Lovely lady, thou 
Wilt leave us soon perchance for distant climes, 
To wake the loud applause of stranger lips, 



Q2 TO MISS JULIA DEAN. 

And win a deathless garland for thy brow, 
And I may see thee never more. Oh take 
With thee the blessings of a heart, that thou 
Hast ofttimes thrilled to ecstasy and tears. 



Sterligljt gjrap, 

rpHE gentle spirit of the twilight now 

Has shut his rosy wings, and I have come 
Out in the sad, sweet starlight, to commune 
With olden visions, soft and beautiful. 
Yet fading in my soul. 

Ye lovely stars ! 
Bright, holy watchers of the glorious sky ! 
Ye gave to me in eyes of other years 
Your gentle sympathy — Oh grant it still, 
For now 'tis dearer to the orphan's heart, 
Than when in childhood's happy years she gazed 
Enchanted on your lovely light, and dreamed 
Had she but wings, that she could rise and grasp 



64 STARLIGHT MUSINGS. 

Your shining forms and twine them round her brow, 

A band of glorious jewels. Now she comes 

Wiser, but oh, less happy, bent in soul 

And crushed in hope, to weep her griefs away 

Beneath your pitying beams. Her proud soul chafes 

And struggles in its earthly pilgrimage ; 

Her weary feet and panting heart would rest 

To-night, and she would muse on dear old joys 

That lent their glow, their spirit-thrilling dreams, 

Their wild, ideal spell of witchery, 

To years that cannot come again, and scenes 

She never can see more. 

Nay, now her heart 
Again grows young and gentle, as it thrills 
Delightedly beneath your beautiful 
And holy spell, as ocean thrills and heaves 
To the young moon in heaven. Again she dreams, 
And years and sorrows vanish from her life, 
And leave her in her pure and innocent 
And joyous childhood. Once again she treads 



STARLIGHT MUSINGS. (}5 

Where roses bloom, and no dark serpent coils 

Beneath their leaves ; again she looks abroad 

O'er nature, with a soul that leaps to blend 

With every scene and sound of love ; again 

She hears the well-remembered tones that made 

The music of her life, ere yet she knew 

That Death was in the world ; and oh, again 

Tears, gentle tears, the chastened spirit's dew, 

Are overflowing from a heart whose depths 

She thought were turned to dust. And now one star, 

One soft, bright star, beams on her eye and soul, 

On which she used to gaze in ecstasy 

With him, the idol of her heart, when they 

Sat hand in hand on glorious eves like this, 

In deep and voiceless love, their souls too full 

Of wild and beautiful and burning dreams 

For human utterance. Ah, little dreamed 

Their hearts, as on their favorite star they gazed, 

That soon its beams would shine alone for her, 

And that her eyes would strain through gushing tears 

To search its glittering orb, and see if 'twere 

His spirit's dwelling-place. 



QQ STARLIGHT MUSINGS. 

Ye glorious stars ! 
Ye shone like blessed spirits of the sky 
On Eden's groves and fountains, ere the pall 
Of sin had fallen there ; ye shone upon 
A dark, and wild, and shoreless world of waves, 
A lone and billowy desert, when the ark 
That held all mortal breath was drifting o'er 
The mountain tops ; ye shone on Sinai's tall 
And awful summit, when a mortal man 
Was talking face to face with God ; ye shone 
On Calvary's sacred height, while yet the blood 
That flowed to wash the human race from guilt 
Was red upon the tree ; ye shone on all 
The prophets and the patriarchs of old, 
And saw their tears as forth they stole and wept 
In agony beneath your silent light ; 
Ye shone upon the meek and reverend heads 
Of those who went forth in the strength of God , 
To bear His message to a fallen world, 
And on the dark brows and the gleaming steel 
Of the fierce hosts that spread their prophet's creed 



STARLIGHT MUSINGS. 67 

Abroad by sword and wasting flame ; ye shone 

On Egypt's plains ere yet the pyramids 

Lifted their bald and solemn heads to heaven ; 

Ye shone on Tadmor, Nineveh, and Rome, 

Their glories and their ruins ; ye have shone 

Upon the living forms and on the graves 

Of the departed generations ; ye 

Have shone on all that's been on earth, and now 

Ye shine on all that is. Oh, in your beams 

There is a world of bright and awful lore, 

A deep spell woven of the centuries, 

And though we scarce may read the mystic scroll, 

It shines upon our spirit with a pure, 

And deep, and mighty power, and charms away 

Care, sin, and woe, and makes us strong to bear 

The strifes of mortal being. 

Beautiful 
And holy stars ! ye seem in Paradise ; 
Ay, when your beams are resting on our brows, 
We feel that we are bathed in what has been 



63 STARLIGHT MUSINGS. 

A part of Heaven itself. We know that ye 

Are God's own thoughts writ by His mighty hand, 

And that our winged souls, by mounting up 

From earth and mingling with your flames, may catch 

A portion of your living glory. We, 

Chained darkly to the dust, may never list 

With mortal ear the lofty symphony 

That ye are ever pealing in your swift 

And radiant sweep through the eternal space ; 

Yet, with our listening spirits we can hear 

Its echoes sounding nightly o'er the earth, 

The solemn music of eternity. 



Wit gmrtelr. 

TTTHY didst thou leave me thus ? Had memory 

No chain to bind thee to me, lone and wrecked 
In spirit as I am ? Was there no spell 
Of power in my deep, yearning love to stir 
The sleeping fountain of thy soul, and keep 
My image trembling there ? Is there no charm 
In strong and high devotion such as mine, 
To win thee to my side once more? Must I 
Be cast for ever off for brighter forms 
And gayer smiles? Alas! I love thee still. 
Love will not, cannot perish in my heart — 
'Twill linger there for ever. Even now 
In our own dear, sweet sunset time, the hour 
Of passion's unforgotten tryst, I hush 



70 THE DESERTED. 

The raging tumult of my soul, and still 
The fierce strife in my lonely breast where pride 
Is fiercely struggling for control. Each hue 
Of purple, gold and crimson that flits o'er 
The western sky, recalls some by-gone joy, 
That we have shared together, and my soul 
Is love's and memory's. 

As here I sit 
In loneliness, the thought comes o'er my heart, 
How side by side in moonlight eves, while soft 
The rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stood 
Beside that clear and gently-murmuring fount 
O'erhung with wild and blooming vines, and felt 
The spirit of a holy love bedew 
Our hearts' own budding blossoms. There I drank 
The wild, o'ermastering tide of eloquence 
That flowed from thy o'erwrought and burning soul. 
There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowers 
To shine amid my dark brown locks, and now 
Beside me lies a bud, the little bud 



THE DESERTED. 71 

Thou gav'st me in the glad, bright Summer-time, 
Telling me 'twas the emblem of a hope 
That soon would burst to glorious life within 
Our spirits' garden. The poor fragile bud 
Is now all pale and withered, and the hope 
Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast 
For ever forth from thine. 

They tell me, too, 
My brow and cheek are very pale — Alas ! 
There is no more a spirit-fire within 
To light it with the olden glow. Life's dreams 
And visions all have died within my soul, 
And I am sad, and lone, and desolate ; 
And yet at times, when I behold thee near, 
A something like the dear old feeling stirs 
Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb 
Of withered memories one pale, pale rose, 
To bloom a moment there, and cast around 
Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon 
It vanishes away, as if it were 



72 THE DESERTED. 

A mockery, the spectre of a flower. 
I quell my struggling sighs, and wear a smile ; 
But ah ! that smile, more eloquent than sighs, 
Tells of a broken heart. 

'Tis said that thou 
Dost ever shine the gayest 'mid the gay, 
That loudest rings thy laugh in festive halls, 
That in the dance, with lips all wreathed in smiles, 
Thou whisperest love's delicious flatteries ; 
And if my name is spoken, a light sneer 
Is all thy comment. Yet, proud man, I know 
# Beneath thy hollow mask of recklessness, 
Thy conscious heart still beats as true to me 
As in the happy eves long past. Ah ! once, 
In night's still hour, when I went forth to weep 
Beneath our favorite tree, whose giant arms 
Seemed stretched out to protect the lonely girl, 
I marked a figure stealing thence away, 
And my poor heart beat quick ; for oh ! I saw, 
Despite the closely muffled cloak, 'twas thou. 



THE DESERTED. 73 

Then, then I knew that thou in secrecy 
Hadst sought that spot, like me, to muse and weep 
O'er blighted memories. Thou art, like me, 
In heart a mourner. In thy solitude, 
When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighs 
Convulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fall 
Like burning rain. Oh ! 'twas thy hand that dealt 
The blow to both our hearts. I well could bear 
My own fierce sufferings, but thus to feel 
That thou, in all thy manhood's glorious strength, 
Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony, 
Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weight 
Of death. I see thee in my tortured dreams, 
And ever with a smile upon thy lip, 
But a keen arrow quivering deep within 
Thy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may'st wed 
Another ; but beside the altar dark 
My mournful form will stand, and when thou seest 
The wreath of orange blossoms on her brow, 
Oh ! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiled 
Wildly around thine own. 
4 



74 THE DESERTED. 

I'm dying now ; 
Life's sands are falling fast, the silver cord 
Is loosed and broken, and the golden bowl 
Is shattered at the fount. My sun has set, 
And dismal clouds hang o'er me ; but afar 
I see the glorious realm of Paradise, 
And by its cooling fountains, and beneath 
Its holy shades of palm, my soul will wash 
Away its earthly stains, and learn to dream 
Of heavenly joys. Farewell ! despite thy cold 
Desertion, I will leave my angel home, 
Each gentle eve, at our own hour of tryst, 
To hold my vigils o'er thy pilgrimage, 
And with my spirit-pinion I will fan 
Thy aching brow, and by a holy spell, 
That I may learn in Heaven, will charm away 
All evil thoughts and passions from thy breast, 
And calm the raging tumult of thy soul. 



«I)ou gttest |Pe Her Wore. 

THOU lovest me no more. It needs not words 
To tell me thou art altered now. Alas ! 
I mark it well in thy cold, studied tone. 
Oh would affection seek its warmth to hide 
In tones whose chilling, freezing cadences 
Fall on the soul like Alpine drops ? 'Tis true 
Thou still dost say that I am dear ; thy lip 
Still murmurs all love's practised flatteries, 
But thy stern glance of cold and withering pride 
Turns all the hollow mockeries of thy words 
To bitter, bitter ashes on my heart. 
I utter no reproaches. Slowly now 
And silently and mournfully I ope 
My spirit's rosy-gate, and drive from thence 



76 THOU LOVEST ME NO MORE. 

Each dear and starwinged hope that I have loved 
Through long, long years to cherish. 



Never more, — 
Oh never more, thou false one, may I bear 
In vernal bower or in the gilded hall, 
A free, and light, and happy heart. Yet I 
Shall mingle still amid the wild and gay, 
My laugh will echo loudest in the din 
Of mirth and joyousness, and none may know 
The soul's deep bitterness, the quivering hopes 
Crushed on the spirit's hearth. My smiles will be 
As bright as they have been, and none may see, 
That, cold and vacant like the moon's pale beams 
Upon a ruined temple, they but light 
The gloom and shadow that keep watch below. 
Mine still will be the gay and merry jest, 
The keen reply, the free and buoyant tread, 
And none may ever rend the veil, and see 
What darkly lies beneath. 



THOU LOVEST ME NO MORE. 77 

But think thou not, 



Proud and perfidious one, my strong, stern pride 

Shall fail me in my solitude. Ah no, 

The unrelenting tear may never break 

Forth from its deep and hidden fount. The spell 

Of passion still is on me, but disdain 

Heeds not the murmuring tone of love's wild chant, 

That rises like the low voice of the wind 

Wandering at midnight o'er the mouldering chords 

Of a neglected harp. For ever crushed 

And broken be the rosy memories 

That in their fairy beauty floated erst 

Through my love-lighted soul. 

Thy ring is cold, 
It seems to bind my finger with a spell 
Of ice, for its bright circle is not now 
The emblem of unending truth and trust. 
I'm gazing on thy picture, but I see 
No smile of sweet endearment on these lips, 
No high devotion on this pale, stern brow, 



78 THOU LOVEST ME NO MORE. 

No gleam of love-light beaming in these eyes 
Of midnight fire — nay even here is change. 
I send thee back thy vain and worthless gifts — 
Ah, proud one, would that I could give thee back 
Thy bosom's truth. 

I said I would not weep 
Again, but drops of mingled tears and blood, 
From the recesses of a breaking heart 
Are gushing, and the shower has brought relief; 
For oh ! I feel that now the awful gloom 
Which filled my bosom with its cloudy weight, 
Is broken and dispersed. Within its deep 
Dark mists the genius of the tempest stood 
Like a dread night-mare of the soul, and held 
My spirit's elements in thrall, but now. 
The loosened zephyrs wander as they list, 
The deep, strong spell that bound them is dissolved, 
And lo ! the twilight soft comes stealing on 
With its one star, the star of memory, 
Pale, pale, but very beautiful. 



THOU LOVEST ME NO MORE. 79 

I count 
The drops that, one by one, fall on my heart, 
Turning its woman's softness into stone ; 
Yet, to that heart, all worn and changed, thou still 
Art dear, and ever wilt be dear. Some thoughts 
Of thee, though all my future years will be 
Like by-gone music lingering in my soul, 
A sweet bird-carol heard in childhood's years, 
Or like the lone funereal lamp that burns 
Within the dark and solitary depths 
Of Eastern tombs, forever shining on 
Where all around is death and dull decay. 



$1 §irifc-|ag. 

P^ TR ANGE feelings wildly throng around my heart 

^ On this my natal day. They seem to come 

Like mournful spirits from the distant past, 

And from the dim, sad future. Down, far down 

Into my soul I gaze, and memory, 

The wizard, that bears sway in that lone realm, 

Calls perished joys and hopes from out their graves, 

And bids them glow, and live, and breathe, and I 

Seem once again a happy child amid 

The scenes of other days, with long-lost friends 

Clasping my hand, or sitting at my side, 

And murmuring in my ear their gentle tones 

Of melody and love. 



MY BIRTH-DAY. 81 

My natal day ! 
In other, happier years, I used to hail 
Its advent with a thrill of joy and pride, 
For then I deemed it but an added link 
To a young life that would for ever wear 
The lovely rose-tints of the morning heavens 
That hung serene and beautiful above, 
Unbroken by a storm-cloud ; but to-day 
A sigh", a tear, is in my soul to think 
Wave after wave of my existence thus 
Breaks on the shore of old Eternity, 
And sinks to silence and to nothingness. 
Here in my spirit's awful solitude 
I muse upon the thousand hopes that rushed 
Impatient to life's banquet, and expired 
In tasting of the poison-cup they thought 
A boon the gods might crave. 

My birth-day ! Years 
Have flown and left me a lone mourner. One 
By one I've seen the deeply, dearly loved, 

4* 



MY BIRTH-DAY. 

The friends and guardians of my childhood, fade 

And wither like the leaves when Autumn sets 

His many-tinted signet on the woods. 

Yet I, whose life in this drear month began, 

Still linger darkly, sadly here to weep 

For vanished stars and lovely blighted flowers 

That shed upon my life, in brighter years, 

Their lustre and their perfume. But with hopes 

All crushed, and eyes bathed in the heart's best dew, 

I lift my gaze above the earth, and read 

Upon the far sky's blue and starry scroll, 

A beautiful and holy promise. God 

Watches and shields the lonely orphan here ; 

Ay, He who kindly tempers the cold wind 

To the shorn lamb, will temper life's fierce storms 

To her who calls upon His sacred name 

In deep and fervent prayer. 

My natal day ! 
'Tis slowly melting in the twilight now, 
And soon its tints along the western sky 



MY BIRTH-DAY. 

That seem a rose-wreath on the brow of death. 
Will pass away. My natal day, farewell ! 
Oh may'st thou, if thy light shall ever come 
To me again on earth, behold the hopes, 
That droop and fold within my lonely soul 
Their broken pinions now, soar proudly up, 
And revel, 'mid the glories of the sky. 

Louisville Ky. 



ALONE he sat. His broad and lofty brow 
Was bent upon bis thin, pale band ; bis locks 
Of jet hung o'er it with a darkened shade ; 
His black and glistening eye gleamed with some deep 
And sad and earnest thought ; his cheek was white — 
White as the Parian stone ; his quivering lip 
Was blanched to Death's own hue ; and the blue veins 
That branched along his temples seemed to throb 
With the strong spirit's fever. 

All alone, 
In the dim twilight's calm and solemn hour, 
He sat and mused upon his far-off home, 
His happy childhood's faded years, and all 
The beauty and the glory that had passed 



THE STUDENT g5 

With them for evermore. He sadly thought 
Of his sweet sister, with her golden hair 
Streaming and waving on the morning wind — 
His bold young brother sporting at his side, 
With a free shout, as joyous as the sound 
Of bright, glad waters, leaping to the sheen 
Of early Spring — his mother's gentle kiss, 
Her sad, sweet smile, her holy words of love — 
His gray-haired father's fervent blessing, breathed 
With quivering lip, at the last parting hour, 
When his own tears fell like the Summer rain — 
And her, the dearer still, whose soft, blue eye, 
Through dark and gloomy years, had been to him 
The day-star of his being. Ay, he thought 
Of these, all sleeping in the church-yard now, 
And 'mid his mournful musings he forgot 
The world, his many triumphs, and his wild 
And maddening love of fame, that in the dim 
And distant future might make melody, 
Dear melody for his now lonely ear ; 
And then he bowed his strong and lofty heart, 



86 



THE STUDENT. 

And, 'mid his sad and holy memories, wept 
His stern, dark pride away. 

From his deep trance — 
His long, deep trance of memory, love and grief- 
He started up, and clenching his pale hands 
In strong resolve, he raised his eyes to Heaven, 
And moved his thin and bloodless lips, and vowed 
To win a name a nation should adore — 
To write it on the broad and glorious scroll 
Of living greatness. Then, as o'er his heart 
The vision stole with bright and burning power, 
That would not be controlled, he smiled, and quelled 
The rushing tide of passion's flood, and pressed 
The one bright picture to his breast— the dear, 
Prized picture of his future glory. 

High 
Among the foremost of his country's sons 
That student stands. The wild and stormy souls 
Of multitudes bow to his master-will, 



THE STUDENT. 87 

Even as the sheaves the dreaming patriarch saw 
Bow to the master sheaf. Each lightning flash 
Of his sublime and glorious intellect 
Is followed by the long, loud thunder-peal 
Of popular acclaim. Lone and bereft 
In heart, he sways a mighty people's hearts, 
And moves majestic in his pride of place, 
Lord of the realm's applause. Ah, little know 
The idolizing world the bitter throes 
That rend his soul, the weary woe he bears 
Without a word or sign. His power and fame 
Are all they know or seek to know. No eye 
Save God's may see him in his solitude, 
When, 'mid the holy stillness of the night, 
He turns from all life's glittering pomp away, 
And weeps and sobs, ay, like a very child. 



In Herons nf $rs, feline % •Irien, 

ON VISITING HER HOUSE AFTER HER DEATH. 

SHE is not here ! Alas, she is not here ! 
Yet all still breathes and speaks of her. Her sweet 
And living presence is in every thing. 
The very breeze, deep-laden with the soft, 
Rich perfume of her own, her much-loved flowers, 
Seems murmuring with a sigh her cherished name. 
Through the lone chambers of her darkened home 
I wander oft, and pine to greet once more 
Her beauteous form now mingling with the dust. 
The shadow of deep gloom hath settled round 
The holy hearth where joy was wont to ring. 
The lovely Spring-time is again on earth, 



IN MEMORY OF MRS. O'BRIEN. 89 

Kissing the thousand wild-flowers into bloom 

And fairy life ; upon the rosy gale 

The wild-bird's song is floating ; ■ a bright robe 

Is o'er the wooded hills ; and from the soft, 

Green bosom of the earth, the young buds burst. 

As springs the soul immortal from the tomb 

Of darkness and of shadow ; but the flowers 

Look sad, a hue of sorrow seems to dim 

Their beauty's glow, as if they missed her sweet 

And gentle ministry, and wept bright tears 

Of dew for their dear sister-spirit dead ; 

The wild-bird's music seems a wail of grief 

Breathed for the loved and lost ; the blessed beam 

Has lost its smile, as if it sought in vain 

For her fair angel-brow, on which to shed 

Its answering lustre. 

All is lone and drear — 
I gaze upon her partner's grief-bow'd form, 
And mark the deepened silver of his locks, 
And my heart checks its selfish sighs. Her child, 



90 



IN MEMORY OF MRS. O'BRIEN. 

Her cherub-child, is sporting in the bloom 

Of infancy, but yet her very mirth 

Seems strangely sad, as if her spirit felt 

That Death's stern hand had crushed her parent stem, 

And thrown her as a loosened bud to float 

Upon the dark and stormy waves of time, 

A thing of lone and blighted life. 

Dear friend, 
Friend of my childhood's bright and happy years, 
Where dwells thy spirit now ? I feel its power 
In this calm twilight air ; I catch thy tone 
In the sweet cadence of this evening gale ; 
I see the holy beauty of thy face 
In the strange beauty of yon sunset cloud ; 
I feel thy breath upon my cheek, as though 
Thy spirit in its angel-mission o'er 
The darkened earth, stooped from its glorious flight 
To whisper hope and comfort to my bruised 
And broken spirit. Can it be ? Ah yes, 
O'er this lone spot thy bright and guardian wings 



IN MEMORY OF MRS. O'BRIEN. 91 

Are hovering, and at night thy angel-arms 
Enfold again the loved of earth, and guard 
From coming ills the children of thy heart. 
It must be so, for oh, I know that this 
Blest presence is thine own. Thy spirit glides 
Around me at the morning, noon, and eve, 
And at the solemn midnight, and I thank 
Thy God and mine, that I am not alone. 

Bedford, April 12th, 1851. 



Cto 0f % fear. 

A N hour ago the music at the wood, 

And the low chant of waves came o'er the glade, 
But now no murmur breaks the solitude, 

And a stern weight on Nature's pulse seems laid. 
Yon moon has seen the death of countless years 
From her blue air-halls in the midnight sky, 
And lo ! her dim sad eye looks down through tears 
Upon the earth to see another die. 

Silent and beautiful, she sits alone, 

The princess of the sky, and in her pale 

Sweet light a spell of mournful love seems thrown 
Upon the plain, the forest, and the vale : 



CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 93 

It is the old year's death-hour, but no sob 

Comes on the night-air from his dying breast ; 

Serene, and calm, and still, without one throb 
Of agony he passes to his rest. 



Yet tears are in our hearts and in our eyes, 

Mid the strange stillness of this solemn night, 
While here we sit and muse upon the ties 

The dying year has severed in his flight ; 
Ay, as his last breath on the air is flung, 

Our hearts are heavy and our eyes are dim 
With thinking of the woes that with him sprung 

To life — alas ; they cannot die with him. 

Like the cold shadow of a demon's plume, 
A chilling darkness that will not depart 

Lies on our thoughts, and casts its sullen gloom 
Around the dearest idols of the heart ; 

We learn in youth the stern and bitter lore 

That comes of ruined hopes and darkened dreams, 



94 CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 

And Nature has no magic to restore 

The glory of the spirit's shadowed gleams. 

Scattered and broken on life's desert wide, 

The soul's best gems, its brightest treasures shine, 
And memories of joy, and love, and pride 

Lie dim upon the bosom's shattered shrine : 
We gaze into the future, but a shade 

Is on its visions, they are not so blest 
And beautiful as those the year has laid 

Within the heart's deep sepulchre to rest. 

The music of our being's rushing stream 

Is growing sad and sadder day by day, 
And life is but a troubled fever-dream 

That soon must vanish from our souls away ; 
But when this wild and tearful dream is past, 

The mounting spirits of the pure will rove 
Above the cloud, the whirlwind, and the blast, 

In the bright Eden of immortal love. 



CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 95 

Farewell, old year ! while sorrow dims our eyes, 

We bless thee for the lessons thou hast given ; 
Though thou hast filled earth's atmosphere with sighs, 

We trust that thou hast brought us nearer heaven : 
Some stars that gleam along thy shadowy track 

Will shine upon our hearts with holy power, 
And oft our pilgrim-spirits will come back 

To muse and weep o'er this thy dying hour. 



Old year, farewell, the myriad flowers that thou 

Hast blighted, will again in beauty bloom, 
And breathing millions thou hast caused to bow 

In death, will rise in triumph from the tomb. 
Not thus, old year, with thee. Thy life, now fled, 

No power of God or Nature will restore ; 
The graves of years may not give up their dead, 

And thou wilt live, oh never, nevermore. 



Farewell, for ever fare thee well, old year ! 
The gentle angel, missioned at thy birth 



96 CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 

To keep life's records through thy sojourn here, 
Has poised his shining wing and left the earth ; 

Oh, may the words of love and mercy fall, 

Heaven's own blest music, on each erring soul, 

When, on His burning throne, the Judge of all 
Shall to our eyes unfold the awful scroll ! 



®0 mg §m$L 

"1 /TY cousin, I am gazing on thee now. 

And well I mark, with soul of joy and pride, 
The changing beauty of thy glorious face. 
With rapture swelling in my heart of love 
I gaze upon thy young and joyous cheek, 
Where roses pure reveal their richest dyes, 
And shed their sweetest perfume — thy soft eye, 
Thy soft, meek eye of mild and tender blue, 
Trembling beneath its dark and fringy lash, 
And glowing with the spirit-dreams that seem 
Reflected from its calm, mysterious depths, 
Like gems from ocean-caves — thy lofty brow 
O'er which the blue veins stray like tranquil streams 
Along a lovely plain — thy temples pale, 
5 



TO MY GEORGIE. 

Where thy brown wealth of waving tresses floats 

In beautiful luxuriance — thy lips 

Of richest coral, where a thousand smiles 

Appear and flee in frolic chase, like birds 

Around a sleeping lake at morning-tide — 

I gaze on these, sweet cousin, and in all 

I see a spirit of deep purity ; 

A living, breathing, glowing soul of deep 

And holy purity, from which dark Vice 

And Sin would cower and fly, rebuked and quelled 

As by Religion's power. 

My cousin dear, 
Thou art a very dream of loveliness, 
And beauty is thy purity. Thou art 
A creature whose hio;h soul is troubled not 
With the temptations of a world of sin. 
Thy gentle spirit here hath kept undimmed 
The angel-charm on which our God in heaven 
Set His own signet of unchanging truth. 
I love thee, and 1 reverence thy high 



TO MY GEORGIE. 99 

And holy strength of purpose. Gentleness, 
And loftiness, and virtue are in all 
Thy feelings, and they stamp thy mortal life 
With an immortal beauty. 

Cousin dear, 
As here I fix my tearful eyes on thee, 
And hear thy tones of pure and gentle love, 
My spirit seems to see an angePs form, 
And hear the cadence of an angel's voice. 
Thou art young, pure, and sweet — life beckons thee 
To a bright destiny. Thy loving friends 
Are ever, ever round thee, making earth 
All that thy true and gentle heart could crave 
In its wild fairy visions. There are those 
For ever round thy glowing path, who fling 
A brightness on thy being, and to whom 
Thy own sweet life is as the radiant beam 
And the refreshing dew-drop to the parched 
And desert earth. Ay, thou art blest with all 
That makes life beautiful, with not one cloud 



-LOO TO MY GEORGIE. 

To dim thy heaven. Thus may it ever be, 
Dear friend, with thee. May no dark sorrows e'er 
Come o'er thy tranquil life, like those that frown 
So dark o'er my sad fate. Oh I would pray 
The Power who sends to me a night of grief 
And storm of bitter tears, to give to thee 
The bright sky where no thunder-cloud e'er breaks 
The holy blue : to give thee a bright path, 
Where no foul serpents coil to blight and mar 
The angels' shining footsteps, and no thorns 
Mingle with love's pure garlands. 

Cousin sweet, 
May peace, and joy, and hope be thine on earth ; 
May these e'er be thy blessed ministers, 
Thy guardian-spirits here, and may they crown 
Thy beaming brow in God's own Paradise, 
With their bright wreath of immortality. 

Ohio River, June 23. 



lit itaorrg 0f ma $a%t, 

"Pi EAR father mine, thy grave is far away — 
- L -^ Soft, sunny skies, bend warm and lovingly 
Above thy dreamless slumber, and the waves 
Of a far southern stream sweep by, and bear 
In their low tones a message and a sigh 
From thy unhappy child. 

My father dear, 
These eyes have never gazed upon thy grave, 
These hands have never taught the sweet Spring-rose 
To bloom on that neglected spot ; but ah, 
Within my soul there is a holy flower. 
A flower perennial, watered with my tears, 
And kissed to bloom by the sweet beam of love — 



102 IN MEMORY OF MY FATHER. 

Father, that flower is memory of thee. 

Years, weary, anxious years have passed o'er earth, 

And shadowed in their course young, loving hearts, 

Since that bright morning when we saw thee go 

Forth in the beauty of thy glorious prime, 

Bearing to thy far southern home a fair 

And gentle bride. Oh, father, thou didst kiss 

Thy little prattler with a beaming smile, 

And give her to thy mother's holy care ; 

But even then I heard a faint, low sigh, 

Which sadly fell upon my ear and heart, 

The omen of a coming agony. 

They tell me that a fair, young stranger girl, 
Who knew thee not, has placed a sweet wildrose 
To shed its gentle fragrance o'er thy dust. 
Her pitying heart was deeply touched to look 
On thy neglected sleep, and, with the pure 
Sweet instinct of a daughter, she placed flowers 
Upon thy lonely grave. My deep heart breathes 
A blessing upon hers. Oh may no griefs 



IN MEMORY OF MY FATHER. 10< 

E'er fall upon her life like those which rest 
So dark on mine. 

Oh father, my poor heart 
Is lone and sad to-night. In agony 
'Tis calling to thee in thy distant grave. 
I am an orphan lone, and, when my brow 
Is fevered and my heart oppressed, I fain 
Would fly to thee ; I would pour out my grief 
Beside thy mouldering ashes ; I would weep 
Beside the cold grave-stone, and on the ear 
Of Death would breathe a stricken daughter's woe. 
My spirit calls to thine — oh come to me 
In this lone hour, and let me know once more 
A father's holy love. Ah, now a strange 
Mysterious thrill comes o'er my soul ; I feel 
A spirit's presence — father, is it thine ! 
Yes, it is thine, I see thee, and through all 
The trembling fibres of my frame I feel 
That hallowed kiss. Stay, blessed father, stay, 
And leave me never more alone on this 



104 IN MEMORY OF MY FATHER. 

Cold desert of the earth. If thou must go, 
Dear father, fold thy angel-wings around 
Thy child, and bear her to thy far blue home, 
To rest for ever with our God and thee. 

Bedford, Ky. 



% fee %m ®n at tire ©lit frjrsthtg-f la«. 

TT is tlie twilight hour, and o'er the earth 
-*- The softening spells of evening shadows steal. 
All here is stillness now, and I have come 
To look once more upon this spot, and hold 
Communion with the unforgotten past. 
My heart, all sad and lonely, here would breathe 
The silent music that clings round its chords. 
The perfume from the incense-breathing meads 
Steals o'er my spirit, like the fragrance caught 
From many a broken, pale, and withered flower 
Of faded memory. The evening star 
Still shines above as bright as when it beamed, 
In eve's long past, a watchfire in the heavens, 
To guide his steps to me 
5* 



106 THE LONE ONE. 

Ah, here where once 
My young heart knew life's deepest blessings, I 
Would weep away that heart's remaining youth. 
Here where 'twas soft and gentle, it should now 
Learn to be strong. Years, with their joys and griefs, 
Have passed away and left this sacred spot 
Unchanged. The little rustic seat where we 
Erst whiled away the dear and blissful hours 
With love's low-murmured melodies, is still 
As memory oft has pictured it. Again 
My heart forgets its shadows and its gloom, 
The tones of love thrill through its depths, and on 
The breeze the cadence of his words is borne ; 
Again my hand within his own is pressed, 
To his my eyes are turned and drink again 
The bliss of that dear smile. 

Within my soul 
So dark and drear, a light is breaking now, 
'Tis memory's holy star-gleam, 'tis a light 
From out the happy past. Deep in my heart 



THE LONE ONE. 107 

There blooms a single flower, a lonely flower 
Of faded recollection, the "last rose" 
Of joy's departed Summer,, a sweet bloom 
Whose sad pale beauty lingers mournfully 
Upon life's darkened waste — it is the bloom 
Of dear remembered love, and now my heart, 
My weary heart, finds rapture in this spot 
Of holy tryst. 

But, lo ! the roseate tints 
Have slowly faded from the Western sky, 
The mystic lamps of Heaven shine far above, 
And the pale moonbeams slumber with a wan 
Mysterious light upon this blessed scene. 
The falling dews are heavy on my hair, 
Whilst tears, delicious tears, are welling up 
From my heart's shadowed fount. 

I am alone 
With God and with His holy messengers 
That guard this sacred place. A soft low prayer 
Is gently stirring all my heart's young leaves, 



108 THE LONE ONE. 

And breathing from my lips. Oh I would ask 
For him a charmed existence. I would ask 
That on my life the shadows lengthening 
In their decline might rest, so he be spared 
A single sorrow. Let the blessed beam 
Shine on him, and the shadow hang o'er me. 
My life within the " vale of shadows " e'er 
Must lie, but oh may his be on the bright, 
Sun-lighted mount, and from my lowly home, 
With outstretched arms and yearning heart, I'll lift 
My soul to pierce the cloud-gloom, and to gaze 
With love and tears on him. 

Sweet spot, farewell ! 
Take these, my breaking heart's wild, burning tears 
As its deep blessing. Take my stifled sobs 
As tokens of my parting agony. 
The holy light of love that ever burns 
Within my soul on memory's sacred shrine, 
Has gathered brightness and intensity 
From this lone eve's communion. Dearest spot, 
Farewell ! farewell ! I may not see thee more. 



fines to pis 

ON HER MARRIAGE. 

FAIR lady, new and holy ties are thine, 
The dearest ties e'er twined by earth or heave^ 
And oh may every blessing on thee shine, 
That to a mortal spirit can be given. 

Thou art, indeed, most beautiful and fair, 
No shadow rests upon thy queenly brow, 

And I will pray that never grief or care, 
May dim the life, so pure and happy now. 

Thou goest from thy dear old parent home, 
The home of peace, of happiness and love, 

Yet still 'twill be, where'er thy feet may roam, 
An ark of refuge for the wandering dove. 



HO LINES TO MISS 



Within another's heart thy heart of pride, 
Its sweetest bliss, its dearest life has found, 

And may thy deep devotion, gentle bride, 
Forever be with richest garlands crowned. 

My spirit fain would weave a mystic spell, 
To bless thy lofty spirit, it would pray, 

That all the richest joys, that ever fell, 
From heaven to earth, may fall around thy way. 

'Twould pray that if the storm thy skies shall shroud. 
And the dear light of sun and stars depart, 

The holy beams that glow beyond the cloud, 
May shine serenely on thy mounting heart. 

Thy face hath wakened in my heart a high 
Bright dream of beauty to my spirit dear, 

And oh ! may I behold thee in the sky, 
As beautiful as I behold thee here. 

Kentucky, Dec. 3d. 



®0 



I DO not love thee, yet why does thy calm 
Sweet smile forever haunt my dreams, and why 
Do thy dark eyes beam gloriously on mine 
Like bright stars from the midnight heaven of sleep 1 
No tone of sweetest music ever falls 
Upon my ear at gentle eve but breathes 
The music of thy voice ; no silver wave 
E'er murmurs at my feet but seems to glass 
Thy face and form ; no lovely blossom springs 
Beside my lonely pathway but exhales 
The perfume of thy breath. 



112 TO 

When thou art near, 
My thrilling spirit seems a universe 
Of happiness and beauty. Blessed dreams 
Of airy loveliness float through my soul ; 
A chastened splendor rests upon my life, 
As a soft pillar of the moonlight rests 
Upon the deep ; and a soft glory comes 
From thy sweet presence o'er my heart, to charm 
My senses into worship. 

On thy brow 
I read the might of lofty intellect, 
And I have listened with a panting heart 
To thy high words of music and of pride, 
And bowed my soul in homage to thy power, 
Thou glorious son of genius. Every star 
That trembles in the blue empyrean, seems 
A torch to light thy spirit's sweeping track 
Through Heaven's serene abyss ; and holy night 
Seems but a stole of solemn hue thrown round 
The radiance of thy soul. 



TO 113 

Thou art afar, 
I know not where, but still the arches lone 
Of Memory's sacred temple are illumed 
By the pure, blessed brilliancy they caught 
From thy dear presence, and they echo yet 
Thy voice's spirit-music, till the air 
Grows tremulous with joy. The wanderers o'er 
The bright realms of the rosy Hesperus, 
Ne'er revelled in an atmosphere of bliss 
Like that which thrills around me with the spell 
Of thy remembered cadences. 

And yet 
I love thee not. I only ask to look 
With thee upon the heavens that roll serene 
And beautiful above ; to sit and gaze 
On the same stars thou gazest on, and send 
My soul to thine when slumber's midnight dews 
Have fallen on thy blue-veined lids, and hushed 
Thy heart to rest. Oh I would love to flit. 
The spirit of the zephyr, through thy dreams, 



114 TO . 

Waking to beauty and to melody 

Thy fancy's wild and leaping waves ; to glide, 

A star-beam, through thy softly-shadowed soul, 

Flinging a glory o'er thy sleeping world ; 

To murmur like a voice from out the air 

Within thy dreaming ear, and blend my thoughts 

With thy own thoughts of flame. 

Then thou wouldst feel 
My kisses on thy lip, and my young heart 
Pressed to thy throbbing bosom as I watched 
O'er thy unguarded hours, but yet no spell, 
Flung on thy sweetly-troubled sleep, should haunt 
Thy waking life with its remembered charm. 
Ha ! what wild power is this that fills my soul, 
Holding thought, feeling, ay, my very life, 
In its resistless thrall ? 'Tis strangely sweet, 
Yet there is madness in its influence, 
And with a trembling soul and frame I bow 
To its mysterious mastery. Oh, unchain 
Thy victim, strong and beauteous spirit, take 



TO . 115 

Thy magic fetter from my soul ; unbind 
My wing and leave me free, as I have been. 
To wander with the birds, the waves, the winds, 
The clouds, the stars, where'er I list, o'er earth 
And through the blue and boundless cope of Heaven. 

Louisville, Ky., January 6, 1852. 



3% SWJa. 

Y dear, lost mother, it is midnight now, 
The sky is dark and starless, and the earth 
Seems bound as with a spell of silence. All 
Around is still and pulseless as the heart 
Whence life has fled for ever. At this hour, 
When in my listenings I can hear no sound, 
Save the low earnest voice of my own soul 
Calling in grief to Heaven, I would invoke 
Thy spirit from its blessed home, to hold 
Communion with thy child. 

My thought retains 
No vestige, mother, of thy form or face — 
Death took thee from me long ere memory 



MY MOTHER. H7 

Could paint the image of thy loveliness 

Upon my infant soul. Yet many friends 

Have told me thou wast beautiful beyond 

The poet's twilight imaging. They say 

That thy fair, blue-veined forehead nestled 'mid 

The dark brown clusters of thy tresses, like 

The spirit of sweet purity among 

The clouds of earthly gloom ; that thy black eye, 

Calm, proud, and beautiful, beamed with the pure 

High visions of thy soul, as midnight waves 

Gleam with the flashing star-beams ; that thy cheek. 

For ever living with the blended hues 

Of rose and lily, seemed to glow with more 

Than earthly beauty ; and that thy red lips 

Took added witcheries from the beaming smiles, 

And from the tones of gentle melody 

That ever hung around them. Ay, I've heard 

Full oft of thy entrancing charms, and mused 

In silence on them till my soul has sketched 

A picture of surpassing loveliness, 

And fondly named it thee ; and oh I feel 

I could for <*ver kneel ?ind worshin it 



118 MY MOTHER. 

In wild excess of love. I do not know 

That e'er I heard thy voice, yet in my brain 

There is a soft mysterious melody 

Far sweeter than the sweetest sound of earth ; 

And I have dreamed it is thy gentle tone 

Breathed in mine ear in early infancy 

And lingering faintly still. 

My mother dear, 
When the high mandate came that bade thee take 
Farewell of this dark earth, and seek thy home 
Of immortality beyond the stars, 
Oh did no feeling of regret arise 
Within thy pure and parting soul ? Hadst thou 
No torturing fears, sweet mother, for thy child 
Whom thou wast leaving in her helpless years 
Amid a world of sin ? Hadst thou no dread 
Lest her young feet should wander from the paths 
Of truth, when she should hear no voice of thine 
To warn her of her perils ? Mother, now 
That child is weary of life's pilgrimage, 
Her spirit is oppressed on this dark shore 



MY MOTHER. 119 

Of time ; the burden of existence falls 

Upon a heart too weak and faint to bear 

Its cares and agonies ; and oh, she longs 

To come to thee, and weep away her griefs 

Upon thy sainted bosom. Be the first, 

Oh mother, be the first to catch the sound 

Of her young footsteps through the shadowy vale 

Of death, and clasp her in thy blessed arms 

In thy own Eden. 

Mother, from thy home 
Above, look down in pity on thy child, 
Thy lonely orphan wanderer. Shelter her 
With thy angelic wing in her sad stay 
Upon the earth ; breathe strength from thy high soul 
Into her soul ; oh speak to her in dreams, 
When sleep has rent her earthly fetters ; tell 
Her spirit of the bright, the better land ; 
And keep her heart in all its wanderings pure 
From the dark stains of this mortality. 

LonrsviLT.K, Oct. 25. 



Sir 1. g. SwritL 

OH poet, to my lone and swelling heart 
How gently conies the message sent by thine ; 
It speaks to me of all I know thou art, 

For thy high soul glows in each burning line. 
I ne'er have met thee on the earth, but thou 

Hast wakened visions that will long remain, 
Shedding their holy brightness on my brow, 
And haunting with their glory heart and brain. 

Yes, poet, to my soul, as to thine own, 

The world is bright, and if dark grief awhile 

Clouds the high visions of my spirit lone, 
I find no gloom in Nature's blessed smile. 



TO J. R. BARRICK. 121 

The flowers still blow as in my childhood's years, 
The sunset hangs as lovely on the sky, 

And the dear moon wakes still the happy tears 
Her pale face wakened in the years gone by. 

And earth is brighter still, that souls like thine 

Are sent by Heaven beneath the skies, to give 
To cold realities a tinge divine, 

And make it a sweet luxury to live. 
Such spirits lend a deep ideal glow 

To wave, to wildwood, rainbow T , star and flower, 
Charming from human life the shades of woe 

By the strong spell of their mysterious power. 

And thou hast stolen even from this dull, 

Cold heart of mine, one-half its weight of pain, 

And made existence almost beautiful 

By the strange magic of thy heavenly strain. 

Lured by thy tones, my weeping spirit turns 
From all earth's cares, its bitterness and strife, 

And, leaning on thy noble spirit, learns 

To taste the glorious ecstasies of life. 
6 



122 TO J. R. BARRICK. 

Oh, earth to thee must be a Paradise, 

Where birds are singing ever o'er thy head, 
Where silver fountains picture golden skies, 

And loveliest flowers spring up beneath thy tread. 
And there blest spirits, beautiful and bright, 

High angel-natures, love with thee to roam 
At morn, at eve, and in the silent night, 

And talk with thee of thy immortal home. 



/^vH, wearily, most wearily through life, 
^ The orphan girl in bitter grief must go, 
Uncheered amid the dark and fearful strife 

A cold world wages with the child of woe : 
No parent's voice to soothe with sweet control 
The burning tear-drops bursting from her soul. 

She's desolate on earth, and she must bear 

The conflict of mortality alone ; 
Nor in her keenest anguish must she dare 

To heave a sigh, or breathe one sorrowing moan ; 
For men may mock the sighs and groans that start 
From the recesses of a breaking heart ! 



124 



THE ORPHAN. 

And when disease steals fiercely through her frame, 
And she is lying helpless, pale, and weak — 

When fever's wild and desolating flame 
Is burning on her brow and wasted cheek, 

None come to stand beside her couch and lave 

Her lip and forehead with the cooling wave. 

Yet, oh, there's One to whom she still may turn, 
One who hath power to soothe, to heal, to bless — 

The great All-Merciful, who will not spurn 
The weeping orphan in her wretchedness ; 

Yes, she may lift her earnest prayers on high 

To Him who listens to the raven's cry. 



He hears her pleading tones of agony — 
He sees the tears her lifted eyes that fill, 

And the deep wounds that bled upon the tree 
Are for the lovely orphan bleeding still ! 

He will be with her in her sore distress, 

A friend — a father to the fatherless. 



THE ORPHAN. 125 

Then lift thy head, poor orphan, in thy grief, 

Turn from the world, and fix thy thoughts above — 

Thou hast a Father who can give relief, 
And love thee with a deep, immortal love ! 

He will uphold thee on life's stormy sea, 

And make thee blessed in eternity. 



Impute, 

ON RECEIVING A MAGNOLIA FLOWER FROM 
THE BEAUTIFUL SALLIE W. 

LOVE to look on thee, oh glorious flower, 

The brightest nursling of the beam and shower ; 

The soft, rich perfumes round thy fairy heart 

To soul and sense an ecstasy impart ; 

And thy young leaves of snowy whiteness gleam 

With the strange beauty of a wild sweet dream. 

There is a magic in thy leaves, bright flower, 
That thrills me with its deep and mystic power, 



IMPROMPTU. 127 

And o'er the calm thoughts slumbering in my soul, 
Steals with a soft and beautiful control, 
The glowing visions of my life to bless 
With a deep spell of joy and loveliness. 

Oh bright magnolia, thou hast ever stood 

The queen of all the floral sisterhood, 

And she, thy giver, in her pride of place, 

Is crowned the queen of beauty, love, and grace ; 

Ay, what thou art within the garden-bowers 

Is she, thy giver, among human flowers. 

Yet she is far more beautiful than thou, 
Thy leaves are not so white as her white brow ; 
'Twere vain within thy perfumed depths to seek 
Such tints as live upon her heavenly cheek ; 
And the dear witcheries of her blue eye glow 
More lovely than thy cup of spotless snow. 

In thy sweet incense-breath, there is no spell 
Like those that round her presence ever dwell ; 



128 IMPROMPTU. 

Thy gentle beauty is a thing to keep 
For ever in the spirit pure and deep ; 
But she is God's own loveliest blossom, given 
To tell us of the garden-bowers of Heaven. 

Oh, thou and she were both sent here to bless 
The earth with beauty, light, and loveliness ; 
And it was well thy petals should expand, 
Beneath the influence of her fostering hand, 
For now thy leaves clear thoughts of her awake, 
And thou art lovelier for her lovely sake. 

I look on thee, and blessed thoughts of her 
Within the depths of my sad spirit stir ; 
I've gazed on her as now I gaze on thee, 
Till my full soul gushed o'er with ecstasy, 
And her wild beauty has become a part 
For ever of my burning brain and heart. 

Ah, dearest blossom, as with sorrowing eye 
I watch thee fade, and feel thou soon must die, 



IMPROMPTU. 129 

I weep for thee, but still 'tis joy to know 

That her pure soul will keep its heavenly glow. 

Passing at length to yon blue sky afar, 

The brightest flower, changed to the brightest star. 

6* 



life. 

" f\&, life is very, very beautiful 

^ To my young heart. No clouds are on its sky> 
Save those the rainbow crowns ; no waters sweep 
Beneath, save those that give the sky's soft blue 
Back from their tranquil bosoms ; and no winds 
Fly o'er the fresh green earth, save those that come 
To bear sweet incense on their dewy wings, 
To fan my glowing temples, and to lift 
The light curl from my cheek. The many stars 
Shine like rich blessings on me ; cdnntless flowers, 
With all their soft blue eyes, look love to mine ; 
And myriad red and golden fruits hang low, 
And seem to woo my hand to pluck them. Life 
To me is all my heart has ever dreamed 



LIFE. 



131 



Of Eden land ; it is a blooming bower, 
And I its merriest, happiest singing-bird. 
They tell us of a brighter, better clime, 
Beyond the star-lit azure, but I fain 
Would live for ever on this earth." 

Thus sang 
At morn a wild and joyous-hearted girl, 
Upon a flowery lea. Her loosened hat 
Was swinging on her shoulders ; her white hand 
Strayed 'mid the sunny ringlets of her hair ; 
Her blue eyes glistened with her happy dreams ; 
And sweet smiles played, like honey bees, around 
Her parted cherry lips. Young roses lay 
Upon her budding bosom ; and glad thoughts 
Were springing in her heart — sweet spirit-flowers, 
More fresh, more bright, more beautiful, than those 
That bloomed upon her breast. 



Old Time moved on, 
Smiling upon the gay and lovely girl, 



132 LIFE. 

And bearing for her, on his gentle plumes, 
All she could ask or crave. 

A few brief years, 
And Time's sweet smile was changed to frowns. He crushed 
The dewy roses on that young girl's breast, 
And in her heart. The waving of his wing 
Waked a chill blast, from which she shrank away, 
Looking in vain for refuge. One by one, 
The friends and guardians of her earlier years 
Fell at her side ; and one by one their graves 
Were watered with her bitter tears. She felt 
That she was all alone, a wanderer 
Upon the desert of the world. Her voice, 
So often answered in her happier hours 
By tones of love and friendship, now came back, 
But with a wailing echo to her sad 
And straining ear. All bowed in soul, she pined 
In deep and utter solitude. Her hair, 
That erst had wantoned on each passing gale 
So bright and free, was plainly gathered o'er 



LIFE. 133 

Her pale and stricken brow. Her eye, that once 
Had danced so wildly to the melody 
Of her own soul's sweet fancies, looked through tears. 
Yet sparkled with the strange mysterious light 
That tells of coming death. A deep-drawn sigh, 
More dismal than the sobbing of the wind 
Through the lone ruins of an ancient tomb, 
Told that her heart was broken. And as there 
She bowed her forehead low upon her hand, 
Her anguish thus found utterance. 

"What is life? 
Oh, what is life ? A sigh, a tear, a frown, 
A shadow and a mockery ! The light clouds, 
That moved so sweetly o'er my morning sky, 
Have darkened to a tempest ; the bright waves 
That caught the morning and the evening beam, 
Wear midnight's sable hue, and break and roar 
In yeasty wrath around me ; and the winds 
That used to linger on my floating curls, 
And with their dew-lips kiss my rosy cheeks, 



134 LIFE. 

Have turned to winter blasts, and fiercely sweep 

Cold, cold and bitter o'er me. Not a flower 

Blooms in my cheerless pathway ; not a bird 

Sings in my lonely ear ; not one dear voice 

Calls to me in my grief ; and not one star 

Shines on this wide and awful waste. My life 

Is very, very desolate. God ! 

Thou stay and helper of the weary heart ! 

To Thee I kneel in agony, and pray 

That Thou wilt take me from this dreary world 

To rest for ever in Thy smile of love." 



%\t gwmg. p%r, 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO MRS. L. A. W., 
OF LITTLE ROCK. 

fX& how serenely soft that pale high brow, 

O'er which her clustering tresses stray, her eye, 
Dissolving in its sweet blue tenderness, 
As from its depths a mother's holy love 
Is gleaming like the light of heaven, her lips 
Just parted as the low and earnest prayer 
Of angel purity dies soft away 
In wild, sweet music. O'er her infant now 
In slumber " lightly bound," her gentle form 
Is bending low, while blessed, heaven-born hopes 
Are beaming forth from her unshadowed heart, 



136 THE YOUNG MOTHER. 

And lighting up her pale and placid face 
As beautifully as the sunlight glows 
And trembles through a holy crystal fane. 
Close to her breast, her gently throbbing breast, 
Her young babe nestles as a thought of love 
Clings to the human soul. One little hand 
Is pressed in hers, and now a soft sweet smile 
Is stealing o'er its lovely cherub-face. 
Gently she whispers to it of its dear 
And absent father, and the tear-drop bright 
Is quivering on her eyelid like the dew 
On the blue violet's petal. And when soft 
Sweet slumber folds its calm, mysterious wing 
Upon her cherub's little breast, its quick 
Low breathings fall upon her listening ear 
Like notes of heaven. 

Young mother, 'tis thy first 
Bright joy, thy first deep care — oh may it prove 
Thy latest blessing. Since we parted last 
Full many changes have passed o'er our lives, 



THE YOUNG MOTHER. 137 

New ties around thy pure and noble heart 

Are twining, and they give to thy young life 

A bright wild charm. Thus may it ever be 

To thee — may all the bright and glittering links, 

Which hold thee here a happy prisoner 

On Time's dark shore, still form a blessed chain 

To bind thy spirit also to the loved 

Within the angel world. Ah, I can look 

With tearful joy upon thy added ties 

To life, and feel within my heart my own 

Are lessening fast. Oh may thy bud of love 

Expand, and prove thy deep heart's sweetest flower, 

And may ye both, in God's own Paradise, 

Be glorious blossoms on His Tree of Life. 

Louisville, June 2d. 



/^\H minstrel of the magic lyre, thy soul 

Is full of fancies high and beautiful. 
I ne'er have seen thee, yet thy gentle thoughts 
And fairy dreams have wakened in my heart, 
A feeling so delicious, so divine, 
So soft, so dreamy, earnest and intense, 
That I have called it love. Oh yes, 'tis love, 
High spirit-love, my young soul feels for thine 
A sweet emotion, fluttering in my breast, 
With not one tinge of earth upon its pure 
And bright ethereal plumage. 

Minstrel, oft, 
Full oft, at twilight's calm and holy time, 
I've mused upon thy wild enchanting lays 



TO C. W. A., OF TAYLORSVILLE. 139 

Till I have blent a haunting thought of thee 

With the deep spirit of that sacred hour. 

And, in thy lofty inspiration, thou 

So oft hast pictured visions that have lived, 

And breathed, and glowed, and brightened in my heart, 

That I have named thee, in excess of love, 

My spirit's own interpreter. 

Inspired 
And gifted poet, thou hast said the griefs 
That shade my young and lonely life, should wake 
A sympathy within thy noble heart. 
Oh for that sympathy ! My spirit yearns 
To see and bless thee for thy kindly words. 
Warmly and fondly do I welcome thee, 
My soul's true friend. Ah, yes, we will be friends ; 
Though we may never meet, the sunset blush, 
The lovely vesper star, the sweet pale moon, 
The flowers, the waves, the zephyr, and the dew, 
And all the thousand thrilling harmonies 
Of Nature's holy lyre, shall link our souls 



140 TO C. W. A., OF TAYLORSVILLE. 

In sweet companionship. 

It matters not 
That we have never met, and may not meet 
In all our wanderings here, for I shall know 
And love thee, in the bright, the better world. 
Ay, I shall know thee, for my musing soul, 
Sleeping and waking, oft has pictured thee 
On fancy's glowing canvas, and I feel 
That truth is in the picture. 

When my soul 
Is revelling in joys and ecstasies, 
I'll send it laden with soft, rosy dreams, 
To hold sweet intercourse with thee, and when 
My thoughts and visions are of heaven, thy name 
Shall oft be spoken in my earnest prayers. 



®tf » Jfrienir. 

f\R thou hast called me thy own sister dear, 

And my wild heart, o'erfilled with burning love, 
Hath sprung, as springs the lark at early morn, 
To greet the golden beam of day's proud star : 
Or, as the pale and fainting floweret turns 
Its wilted leaves to the refreshing dew. 
Dost ask to read this wayward heart of mine, 
To scan its agonies, its wild, deep griefs ? 
Would'st thou not turn away from me, when o'er 
That volume dark thine eye should roam 1 Oh, say, 
Could'st love me still, friend of my darkened years ? 
Life's weary sands are failing fast. When thou 
Lookest upon this still and haughty face, 
Dost thou e'er dream that passion's maddening tide 



142 TO A FRIEND. 

All wildly rolls below ? Ah, dost thou dream 
That smiles, which flit like golden shadows o'er 
My careless brow, have lost the power to soothe 
The wild and dark unrest of mind and heart ? 
That like a fiendish power, ambition works 
Within my brain, and fiercely riots on 
My warm and bounding soul ? Each energy 
Of my strong nature, now is bent to gain 
Fame's lofty summit, and I may not stop 
Life's flowers to gather. Better then that thou 
Should'st leave me now, and see me nevermore. 
Ne'er may we hope, within this world of woe, 
The separate currents of our lives to blend ; 
Yet we have met and loved, and ere we part, 
I fain would lay my hand upon thy brow, 
And bless thee purely, deeply, fervently, 
And ask thee, in the pure depths of thy soul, 
One flower to keep for ever 'mid life's stern 
And rushing conflict — the deep, earnest love 
Of her whom thou hast called thy sister dear. 

]> TT ISVILLE, KY. 



§nta f tart 

A SCENE FROM BULWER'S ZANONI. 

TT was the close of day upon the shores 

Of beauteous Naples. The low murmuring waves 
That rose and fell upon the "Siren's sea," 
Gleamed like pale rubies in the sunset glow ; 
The dim isles, veiled in mists of silver, rose 
Far through the dim and shadowy atmosphere ; 
The pale, sweet stars shone calm and beautiful 
In the blue diadem of night, and shapes 
Of loveliness and beauty seemed to steal 
Forth from the soft and deepening shades, as Love, 



144 BROKEN BARBITON. 

And star-eyed Hope, and pensive Memory 
Steal from the twilight of the heart. Afar, 
Like a huge column moving in the heavens, 
Soared the gray smoke of old Vesuvius, 
From its broad base of lurid flame ; the shaft 
Of Maro's tomb above the beetling cliff 
Was drawn against the deep blue sky, and soft 
The scattered gardens of the Caprea shone, 
Like "wrecks of Paradise." No human voice 
Broke the deep spell of silence and repose, 
That rested like a calm, mysterious dream 
Upon the landscape, yet the air still seemed 
All musical, and strangely eloquent 
With the hushed cadences and passion-sighs 
Of deep and burning love. 

Ah ! 'mid this scene 
Of loveliness and deep serenity, 
The traces of despair, and woe, and death 
Were darkly visible. The twilight's last 
Sweet, rosy smile of gentleness and love 



BROKEN U A KB IT ON. 145 

Stole softly, calmly, beautifully through 

The parted vines that bloomed and clustered o'er 

The window of an humble cottage home, 

And fell upon the white brow of the dead, 

As human love falls vainly on the heart 

Of cold despair. Alone the minstrel slept 

In his unbreathing rest. Upon the floor, 

Beside him, lay the cherished laurel-wreath. 

His only wealth, the guerdon of his toils, 

The one dear boon for which, through weary years 

Of bitter sorrows, he had patiently 

Struggled and suffered, pouring forth his wild, 

Deep soul of music, while keen agony 

Was tearing his great heart. There, there it lay 

All pale and withering, like the throbless brow 

Whence it had fallen. 

There, beside him too, 
Broken and silent lay his barbiton, 
His own familiar, in whose spirit tones 
His spirit e'er had found in joy and grief 
7 



146 BROKEN BARBITON. 

A faithful echo. It had been his friend, 
True and unfailing, 'mid the darkened wrecks 
Of human friendships. It had been his love, 
His child, his life, and his religion. He 
Had talked to it at twilight's wizard hour, 
The hour that now closed over it and him, 
And it had answered him in tones of more 
Than earthly sympathy. And he had won, 
With its dear aid, the wreath so fondly deemed 
The emblem of fame's immortality. 
But now the dust was on its loosened chords, 
That, like his own dark tresses, swept the floor, 
To sound no more, save when perchance the wind, 
Straying at nightfall through that ruined cot, 
Should gently stir them with its breath of sighs, 
To one low wail, one melancholy moan, 
For him who so had loved them. 

'Twas a scene 

To move the heart to tears. The world around, 
The air, the earth, the sky, the ocean, seemed 



BROKEN BARB IT ON. 147 

Flooded with beauty ; every isle that gleamed 

In the deep sea, and every sweet star isle 

That glittered in the blue sky, seemed a bright 

Calypso of the heart, yet in that lone 

And silent cottage home, the minstrel pale — 

The wreath that he had purchased with the cries, 

The wild shrieks of his spirit — and the lyre, 

The sole companion of his life of toil, 

His heart's dear idol — mouldered side by side, 

Unheeded by the careless race of men. 

Louisville, February, 1852. 



%\t ©rjfym's gram jrf #»m*. 

T LE AENED within myself to live. I saw, 

E'en in my childhood, that the heart's bright buds 
Withered and faded at the touch. I turned 
From all life's empty, heartless mockeries, 
And wept my griefs away on Nature's breast. 
To me was given the deep and earnest love 
Of holy solitude. I strayed alone 
By rock and stream, and through the forest depths, 
And found a sweet and dear companionship 
In every sight and sound that greeted me 
In all my wayward wanderings. 

I learned 
Glad music from the lark's free, gushing song, 



THE ORPHAN'S DREAM OF FAME. 149 

And my heart's sad and mournful minstrelsy 

Found sweet interpretation in the low 

And gentle wailings of the stricken dove. 

My spirit rocked upon the swinging tops 

Of the tall oaks ; it danced upon the waves 

That leaped in light and music or in wrath 

Upon the shore ; it rode upon the winds, 

Soft whispering to the softly whispering leaves, 

Or pealing like some deep-toned instrument 

Through the green banners of the wood ; it sailed 

Upon the clouds that floated beautiful 

Or dark with tempest ; and it wandered oft 

Above, to hold its joyous revelry 

With all the thousand spirit-shapes that bathed 

Their purple plumage in the rosy waves 

Flooding the sunset. My dear mother's smile, 

Caught by the stars from Eden, sweetly shone 

In their pure light on my uplifted eyes, 

And her soft words of cheer came to my soul 

On every gale of morn, and noon, and eve, 

And holy midnight. I was happy then, 



150 THE ORPHAN'S DREAM OF FAME. 

Ay, happy, my lost mother was in heaven. 
But Nature was my mother on the earth, 
And both seemed e'er to love me well. 

At length 
There came a change. The maddening dream of fame, 
The wish to shine among earth's proudest, took 
Possession of my soul. No more I loved 
The voice of birds, the shouting of the stream, 
And the green surging of the woods. I bowed 
In seeming admiration of the throng, 
And felt my cheek burn and my pulses leap 
To the vile breath of those I could but hate 
Within my secret soul. The sneering thought 
That started fiercely upward from my heart, 
Brightened to smiles upon my lips ; my brain 
Grew dizzy, and the tear was in my eye, 
If with rude hand my spirit's chords were jarred 
By those I longed to spurn beneath my feet. 
I wildly struggled for the world's applause, 
But trembled at the faintest word of blame. 



THE ORPHAN'S DREAM OF FAME, 151 

As 'twere the voice of destiny. I won 

The laurel crown, and with exulting heart 

I felt its thrilling pressure on my brow : 

But ah ! a breath of poison from the crowd 

Passed o'er its blooming leaves, and nought remained 

But dust upon my temples. A bright name 

Was my soul's idol, but a feeble blow 

From hands unworthy, shattered and cast down 

That wildly worshipped idol from its shrine, 

For ever and for ever. 

Now, alas ! 
Joy, love, hope, pride, ambition, all are dead 
Within my breast. I smile in bitterness, 
To think with what a madness of the soul 
I sought a worthless bauble. Like a gleam 
Of moonlight from the mountain, or the flash 
Of an expiring meteor from the deep, 
Or the red glow of sunset from the west, 
That dream of fame has vanished from my life, 
And now I feel no pang of vain regret 
That it has perished thus. 



152 THE ORPHAN'S DREAM OF FAME. 

But I look back 
With tears and sighs on the departed years, 
When breeze and billow chanted to my soul 
Their morning hymn and evening psalm ; when soft 
And beautiful night's silver crescent shone 
Upon my spirit, and when all the stars 
Were to my eyes God's living poetry, 
Traced by His hand upon the sky's blue scroll. 
Ah ! I am twice an orphan, for, alas ! 
My mother Nature now is dead to me. 

Louisville, 1852. 



Jl % rifle to n f riwfo, 

ON THE EVEOF HIS DEPARTURE FOR 
EUROPE. 

fTl HOU'LT leave us ! o'er the wild waves of the deep, 

Where winds in fierce unrest for ever sweep, 
In dim, and dark, and distant lands to roam, 
A weary wanderer from thy Western home. 
Friend of my father, my full heart is stirred, 
And, ere thou go, 'twould breathe a parting word, 
And bid thee linger not on those far shores 
From those who love thee in their hearts' deep cores. 
I've loved — I love thee, and in earnest prayer 
To Heaven, I ask, that, when oppressed with care, 
7* 



154 A TRIFLE TO A FRIEND. 

Where Albion's gleaming cliffs are floating high, 
Like snowy clouds against her pale blue sky, 
Thou there may'st find a gentle friend, like me, 
To love, to tend, to guard and cherish thee; 
Soft, tender, true, affectionate, and kind, 
As the pure thoughts of thy own heart and mind. 
Thou goest forth with golden hopes, that gleam 
Like flashing sunshine on the morning; stream — 
May those bright hopes ne'er melt away in tears, 
But glow and brighten through the coming years. 
Whether thou ling'rest where Italian skies 
Shine ever with their glorious Eden-dyes, 
Where the deep soul of love all wildly gleams 
In the mild lustre of the moon's sweet beams, 
And where bright lakes in their untroubled rest, 
Smile like young dimples upon Nature's breast ; 
Or where the mountains of old Switzerland 
Tower with their glaciers, stern, and wild, and grand ; 
Or 'mid sweet Erin's emerald vales and bowers, 
Or in gay France to " chase the glowing hours " 
With merry jest, and laugh, and song, and dance, 
Forgetful of dark time and dreary chance ; 



A TRIFLE TO A FRIEND. 155 

I pray thee, 'mid thy wanderings, still to keep 

Within thy memory beautiful and deep, 

A gentle thought of me, a holy spell 

In thy true soul — God bless thee, and farewell. 



int 0f t\t fwri 



pvEEP in my breast there is a sacred urn 
•*^ I ever guard with holiest care, and keep 
From the cold world's intrusion. It is filled 
With dear and lovely treasures, that I prize 
Above the gems that sparkle in the vales 
Of Orient climes, or glitter in the crowns 
Of sceptred kings. 

The priceless wealth of life 
Within that urn is gathered. All the bright 
And lovely jewels that the years have dropped 
Around me from their pinions, in their swift 
And noiseless flight to old Eternity, 
Are treasured there. A thousand buds and flowers, 



THE URN OF THE HEART. 157 

That the cool dews of life's young morning bathed, 

That its soft gales fanned with their gentle wings, 

And that its genial sunbeams warmed to life, 

And fairy beauty 'mid the melodies 

Of founts and singing birds, lie hoarded there, 

Dead, dead, for ever dead ! but, oh, as bright 

And beautiful to me, as when they beamed 

With Nature's radiant jewelry of dew. 

And they have more than mortal sweetness now, 

For the dear breath of loved ones, loved and lost, 

Is mingling with their holy perfume. 



A very miser, day and night I hide 

The hoarded riches of my dear heart-urn. 

Oft at the midnight's calm and silent hour, 

When not a tone of living nature seems 

To rise from all the lone and sleeping earth, 

I lift the lid softly and noiselessly, 

Lest some dark, wandering spirit of the air 

Perchance should catch with his quick ear the sound, 



158 THE URN OF THE HEART. 

And steal my treasures. With a glistening eye 
And leaping pulse, I tell them o'er and o'er, 
Musing on each, and hallow it with smiles, 
And tears, and sighs, and fervent blessings. 

Then 

With soul as proud as if yon broad blue sky, 
With all its bright and burning stars were mine, 
But with a saddened heart, I close the lid, 
And once again return to busy life, 
To play my part amid its mockeries. 



rpHE twilight now is blushing o'er the earth — 

■*- The west is glowing like a garden, rich 

With Summer's many-tinted blooms ; the flowers 

Of earth hold up their fairy cups to catch 

The softly falling dew-drops ; the bright stars 

Are set like glorious diamonds on the dark 

Blue drapery of the halls of heaven ; the pale 

Sweet moon, like some young angel of the air, 

Floats from the east upon her silver wing ; 

Eve's golden clouds hang low — and thin, white mists 

Rise silently and beautifully up 

Through the calm atmosphere. Serenity 

And loveliness and beauty are abroad 

O'er the whole world of nature. 



160 RECOLLECTIONS. 

At this hour. 
When all the dark, wild passions of the breast 
Are hushed and quelled by Nature's spell of power. 
When every wayward feeling is rebuked 
And chastened by the blended influence 
Of earth and heaven, I've stolen forth alone 
Beneath the blue and glorious sky, to hold 
Communion with the golden hours now gone 
Into the past eternity. 

My heart 
Is very soft to-night, and joys long past 
Shine through the silver mists of memory, 
Like sweet stars of the soul. My brow is flushed, 
My bosom throbs, and blessed tears well up 
From my heart's unsealed fountain, as I see 
Through the pale shadows of the years, the home 
Where first I felt the sweet, bewildering bliss 
Of new existence. Softly, through the deep 
Green foliage of the grove, the beautiful 
White cottage peeps with its thick-blooming vines, 



RECOLLECTIONS. 161 

And in the distance the still church-yard, where 

Repose the cold, unthrobbing hearts of those 

I loved in childhood, lifts its marble shafts 

Beneath the drooping willows. I behold 

The shaded paths where my young footsteps strayed 

To gather wild flowers at the morning tide, 

And for a few brief moments once again 

I seem to wander through the dear old wood. 

The birds sing round me, the dark forest pines, 

Stirred by the breeze, make music like the low 

Faint murmurs of the sea, my playmates shout 

Beside me, and my mother's music call 

Of gentle love is in my ear. 

Oh, there, 
In that sweet home, I cherished fairy dreams 
Of happiness, and all my being wore 
A glow of deep, ideal loveliness. 
My vanished childhood rises to my view 
In pale and melancholy beauty. Life 
Since then hath been but desolate. Alas ! 



162 RECOLLECTIONS. 

What heart-chords have been broken, what bright dreams 

Been shadowed by the hue of grief. No more 

The Egeria of my spirit- worship haunts 

The grove and wood. No charm can woo her back, 

She will not hear my call, she answers not 

The witching spell of fancy. It is not 

That nature has grown old. Her skies are still 

As blue, her trees as green, her dews as soft, 

Her flowers as sweet, her clouds as beautiful, 

Her birds, her waves, her minds as musical 

As when I was a child — Alas ! the change 

Is in my heart. 

Oh, blessed memories 
Of home ! ye are the worshipped household gods 
Upon my spirit's altar. Vanished years ! 
Ye are the dew-drops that my spirit's flowers 
Enfold within their petals. Years have passed 
Since that all-mournful day, when, with a sad 
And breaking heart, and streaming eyes, I left 
The scenes of childhood, and went forth to find 



RECOLLECTIONS. 163 

A home amid the stranger crowds, where I 

Have learned to wear the mask that others wear, 

To smile while agony is in my soul. 

Yet at an hour like this, when Nature glows 

With deepest loveliness, when earth and heaven 

Unite to woo my heart from its retreat 

Of gloom and sorrow, I can wander back 

To quench my faint and sinking spirit's thirst 

At young life's gushing fountains, and forget 

That I am not once more a happy child. 



®0 , tamj fcis Illness* 

rpHOU wilt not leave me, Love, to pine alone 

Upon the dreary desert of the world. 
Thou wilt not, must not, nay, thou canst not die, 
And leave me here, a lonely, withering flower, 
Torn from its parent stem and torn from thee, 
Its dear flower-mate, and thrown upon the cold 
Unsympathizing earth to sigh away 
Its breath upon the gales of autumn. Thou 
Must never leave me, dearest, for with thee 
My spirit's life would perish. 

I have marked 
Thy pale cheek growing paler ; I have watched 
The bright, unearthly glitter of thine eye, 



TO , DURING HIS ILLNESS. 1(35 

And seen the crimson spot upon thy brow, 
The omens of the grave. Thy pallid lip 
Trembles as with a keen, unspoken pain, 
And there are times when o'er thy sunken face 
Deep, mournful shadows, and bright spirit-gleams, 
Follow each other, telling that thy thoughts 
Are of the tomb and heaven. 

Thy hand is cold, 
And damp and deathlike when 'tis pressed in mine, 
And though few years have yet been thine on earth, 
Bright silver threads, like waning spectres, gleam 
Amid the raven curls that float around 
Thy temples pale. Thy voice hath fainter grown, 
And though its melody is sweeter now 
Than even when, in thy young years of health 
And manly strength, thy first dear words of love 
Were breathed into my ear, its sweetness seems 
Caught from the spirit-world. Ay, its low tones 
Soften and melt, each day, as if they were 
Attuning, even now, their cadences 



Iqq TO , DURING HIS ILLNESS. 

To join the angel harmonies that float 
Upon the air of Eden. 

Yet, oh stay ! 
The earth is beautiful to thee ; and while 
Thou lingerest here, thy presence makes it bright 
And beautiful to me. Stay ! stay ! oh stay ! 
And do not leave my life a cheerless night, 
Without one gleaming star upon the cold 
Blue desert of its sky. My heart has flung 
The whole wealth of its hoarded love on thee ; 
Fame's choicest garland blooms upon thy brow, 
Won proudly by thy glorious genius ; thine 
Is the loud worship of the shouting throng ; 
Fortune has poured her treasures at thy feet, 
And many friends, who love thee earnestly, 
Are watching with alternate hope and fear 
From day to day the changes of thy face, 
Betokening life or death. 

Then live, oh live 
For me, for friends, for glory, for mankind ! 



TO , DURING HIS ILLNESS. 167 

Thy strength of soul has made thee conqueror 

In every mortal strife. Oh struggle now 

With the last enemy ! Ah, well I know 

That thou, whose tones were never breathed in vain. 

Canst, by their deep, enchanting music, win 

The angel health back to thy life once more. 

Louisville, 1852. 



THE END. 



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